


A Better Fate

by ColdHandsLuke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ADWD spoilers, ASOS Spoilers, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Begins Pre-Canon, F/M, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Multiple, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 85
Words: 321,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdHandsLuke/pseuds/ColdHandsLuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beginning two years before A Game of Thrones, Jon Snow is spurred in a different direction. This brings on new adversities for him, as well as the chance for a better fate for the Starks.</p><p> <br/><em>"I think this might take the title of best aSoIaF longfic. And it is glorious, plotty, clever, surprising - a wholly statisfying read. Proof that au stands for gold." </em>- <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/sear">Sear</a></p><p><em>" </em>*Spoiler*<em>!!!!!!ALHGOAEIHGOHasdkgab!! Yay!" </em> - <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath">luna_plath</a></p><p> <br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon - A Familiar Guest

**Author's Note:**

> * GRRM owns everything ASOIAF. This story is for fun, not profit.

* * *

“Keep your footing, Jon! Trail your right boot farther behind, whether you are rushed by shield or sword.”

 

“Aye, Ser Rodrik,” Jon replied.  

 

Robb offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. Jon had kept his wooden sword in hand when his brother charged, but his shield lay in the dirt a few paces away. Jon bent and straightened his elbow, testing for stiffness. Though Jon Snow was slightly taller than his brother, he could not match Robb’s strength. The elder of the two had begun to fill out his frame, while Jon remained as lean as any boy of two-and-ten.

 

The training yard of Winterfell smelled of grass and leather armor. Jon breathed deeply and took a moment to let his eyes scan his castle home. Ser Rodrik Cassel bent to pick up the tattered, old shield and Jon glimpsed a shadow in the distance, over the whiskered knight’s shoulder. In the not quite waning daylight, the shadow strode down the slight grass hill towards the dirt of the training yard. Jon tapped Robb with his sword, then pointed at the figure. Robb nodded in silent agreement and a moment later the boys sprinted to the fence. Jon climbed over while Robb dove between the boards. They charged the dark figure with their swords extended like lances.

 

The shadow grinned and sidestepped their clumsy attack. Jon danced from one foot to the other in front of the man. Robb circled round and smacked the shadow on his arse.

 

“Now you’re mine!” hollered the shrouded man. In one deft motion, he grabbed Robb by the collar and then hoisted the lad over his shoulder. Jon turned to run, but fared no better.

 

With a boy on each shoulder, the man shouted to Ser Rodrik, “Brave knight, I’ve caught two wild beasts! Mayhaps, we could put them on a spit and roast them for supper!”

 

“I’ll spark a fire, if you clean and dress the meat, Benjen.”

 

Jon and his brother laughed as their uncle tossed them both to the grass.

 

“You’re back, is their trouble at the Wall?”

 

“Do you need our help throwing back wildling clans?”

 

Benjen Stark laughed at their jest. “Horses and steel from _Lord Stark_ , is all. But should the Night’s Watch have need of your swords, I’ll ride here in all haste.”

 

The boys lost all capacity for attention with their uncle within the castle walls. Ser Rodrik told them that if they returned their wooden arms and padded armor to the armory, they would be free from their training for the balance of the afternoon.

 

Benjen Stark seldom visited his childhood home. As First Ranger, he spent more time riding out beyond the Wall, than south of it. His face held the solemn features typical to his house, but his nephews saw him wear a grin more often than not.

 

Robb and Jon assailed Benjen with questions of his adventures in the Haunted Forest and beyond. They followed him to the Great Hall and played at fighting out his stories of shadow cats and Mance Rayder’s wildlings.

 

The rest of the household joined them for a dinner of lighthearted stories and jests. To each tale: the two eldest brothers boasted of what they would have done in the frozen wilderness, their eldest sister thanked her uncle, and little Arya and Bran sat wide-eyed and unable to discern between truth and Benjen’s teasing.

 

“I could be a man of the Night’s Watch.”

 

At Robb’s words, a hush fell upon the family’s table.

 

“I really could, uncle. I’d wear black mail and leather and chase wildlings up into the Lands of Always Winter. Then they would tell _their_ nephews of the ferocious Robb Stark and never be seen on our lands again.”

 

As Robb tried to sound like a man grown, he could not have sounded more of a boy.

 

Lady Catelyn Stark shifted in agitation. She gave her husband a worried look.

 

Lord Eddard was about to speak when his brother began instead, “The Watch is no place for boys, no matter how eager or brave. Your place is here, in Winterfell.” Benjen lightened his expression and said, “Have I ever told you, yet, how best to tell a snowbear from a bear covered in snow? When you see one, climb a tree. If the bear climbs up after you and eats you, it is just a common bear. If it knocks the tree over, _then_ eats you –that’s a snowbear for true.”

 

Later, Jon and Robb sought out their uncle before going to bed. They looked for him in the Great Hall, then their sisters’ chambers. When they felt certain that he was in their father’s solar, they crept up the stairs and through the halls, preparing to ambush him.

 

They heard the shouting well before they reached the room. Jon wanted to turn back, but Robb grabbed his sleeve and continued on. One of the raised voices was clearly Lady Stark’s; not until they reached the closed door did they realize that the man’s voice belonged to their uncle rather than their father.

 

“. . . no place for a green boy! I’ll not see my fate visited upon my nephew.”

 

“Benjen, this is not your decision,” said the woman. “He is not your son.”

 

Robb and Jon turned to each other. Robb mouthed, “They…are…talking…about…me.”

 

Jon wondered if Benjen had thought Robb serious about wanting to join the Night’s Watch. He should know his kin well enough to see the jape in the boy’s words, Jon thought. Furthermore, Benjen seemed to be arguing against it. _Why would Robb’s mother want him to take the Black?_

 

“My lady, he’s not your son either.”

 

And instantly, Jon understood.

 

“What other choice have we? Is my husband’s bastard going to grow into a greybeard within these halls? Perhaps he could sire some whelps of his own. We could have more little _Snows_ sulking about the castle. Or mayhaps he has the grace to marry his wench. The gets could take one of those comical House names, the Northmen’s version of ’Longwaters’ or ’Riverswyft’; as if the realm forgets that such are still the unwelcome gets of an unwanted son.

 

“I’ve had enough, Ned! Two-and-ten years he has shared a home –even shared a bedroom for much of that time– with my children, _your_ children, _my lord_. He must be sent away! The Wall, the deserts beyond Pentos, any of the Seven Hells, just somewhere!”

 

“Ned, brother, how can you listen to this? Why are you mute when it needs be you to stand for the boy?”

 

“Enough!” Jon heard a chair topple over and his father’s voice first enter the row. “My lady, I must have words with my brother,” Eddard growled. “We shall speak later -you and I.”

 

The sound of footsteps approaching stirred Jon from his frozen position. He and Robb ran as fast and as quietly as they could. Lady Stark would not look kindly on finding Jon, especially.

 

The boys barreled into Robb’s room, breathless and stunned. Robb’s mother hadn’t yelled at them and thus they assumed their escape successful.

 

“But . . . she can’t . . . send you away!” The ferocity of Robb tone was at odds with the whisper-soft volume of his voice. “Father will listen to Uncle Ben . . . won’t he?”

 

“Robb, I don’t know,” Jon shook his head. The heir of Winterfell’s chamber was brightened only by the moonlight falling through the windows. Jon was glad for the darkness, for he did not wish his brother to see the despair in his face, nor the welling tears in his eyes.

 

“No matter what else happens, I will not allow it. You hear me? No matter what. I swear it by the old-”

 

Jon interrupted, “If father tells me to leave, what can I do but leave. . . The Wall won’t be so bad. I’ll have our uncle. The Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. It would be as if I were a part of that. There is honor being a Black Brother. . .” Jon tried to convince himself.

 

“Uncle’s stories aren’t real.  He forgets that we are no longer little, that we are nearly men grown. His tales are for Bran, not us anymore. . . You cannot mean that you want to go.”

 

Robb looked at him, but Jon could not distinguish if his face could be seen. To Jon, Robb looked truly like a shadow, save for his eyes which reflected a bare glimmer of moonlight.

 

“I do not know what I want. I have not the slightest idea what to do, brother. We’ll speak at some later time.”

 

Jon left the room without another word slipping from either of them. When he reached his own room, he locked his door. He quietly placed his single, wicker chair against the door as well. He climbed into his bed, pulled his linens and furs over his head and wept into his mattress.


	2. Arya - Feasting and Introductions

Arya Stark sprinted from the kitchens into Winterfell's Great Hall. Compared to the bustle and warmth amongst the cooks and baking girls, the hall felt cavernous and cold. In her seven years, Arya was accustomed to her mother's scoldings, especially on more formal days. She was late without a good reason. She raised her eyes to scan the hall for her mother. _Thank the gods, I reached here first._

"Arya!"

Arya looked further down the hall to her older sister, Sansa, on the raised dais. Making an effort to present more like a lady, she tried to slow down from a sprint to a polite walk too quickly and fell to the smooth stone floor. As hard as the castle’s floor was, a quick check of her knees showed Arya that at least she wouldn't have blood trailing down her legs when her lord father's bannermen arrived. Septa Mordane had told her of today's occasion almost a fortnight ago, but the girl needed less than an afternoon to forget who would be riding through the gates and why they were feasting today.

No one offered Arya a hand up when she rose to her feet. Her eldest brother, Robb, had once japed, "You can't expect servants to pick you up every time you fall, or else we'll see winter before we see dinner!" Arya nonetheless steadied herself and brushed the dirt from the skirts of her woolen dress. She strode past the direwolf banners, walls of soot-grey stone, and oakwood benches to her siblings. When she reached them, her younger brother, Bran, snickered. He had obviously seen her stumble; Arya wondered how many others had as well. The four Stark children, Robb, Sansa, Bran, and now Arya stood on the dais with Robb’s friend Theon Greyjoy, Sansa’s friend Jeyne, Jeyne’s father the steward, Maester Luwin, and two of Winterfell’s guards. The guards were not really there to fight anyone, Arya knew, but they did give the assembly a look of greater importance. Arya shuffled further down the high table. She hoped to avoid her sister’s embarrassing chastising by leaving Bran between them, but to no avail.

"Arya, you mustn't be late like this," Sansa said, looking over Bran’s head. “You knew full well when you were supposed to meet us. Septa Mordane and Mother would be cross.”

_Why do I need either of them when I have you to treat me like a little baby?_

Sansa lived for days like this one. She acted like some neighboring lord was the king himself. Sansa would curtsey and refer to everyone by their proper titles. She acted like some grown-up lady, instead of the girl she really was. The heavy oak doors swung open and Sansa straightened her posture expectantly. Instead, in walked Jory and Harwin followed by Sir Rodrik and Arya's other brother, Jon. Both of the pairs went to the head of the second table. Jon smiled at her when he saw that she was standing as close to the second table as she could. She loved her brother even though he was a bastard. She couldn't stand how Sansa looked down her nose at him. Arya would sometimes yell at her when she did that or when she would call him their half-brother. Arya had seen her mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, do worse. Even as a girl of seven, she knew that adults thought ill of bastards. She wished to compel her mother to like Jon, but knew not how. Arya had never so much as talked to her mother about any such topic.

She was stirred from her thoughts by a babe's wailing.

Lady Catelyn descended the stairs carrying a red-faced Rickon. Arya couldn't stand her youngest brother when he threw his tantrums. He was pleasant enough to play with when he could crawl across the grass, but always seemed to fight when forced indoors. Arya's mother took her place to the left of head at the opposite end of the table from Arya. Catelyn lightly tossed Rickon in her arms; her howling pup was having none of it. As luck would have it, Rickon's cries were quickly drowned by the approaching rumble.

Lord Eddard Stark walked through the doorway with a stout man's arm across his shoulders. Six-and-twenty men, ladies, and children trailed them. Bran leaned toward Arya and whispered, "That's Lord Karstark next to Father and Lord Cerwyn behind them.”

“No, you dolt,” Arya reproached him quietly enough that only Bran could hear. “The Karstark sigil is a sun. See those antlers? Does the sun have antlers?”

She smiled at the taste of a small revenge for her little brother’s earlier snickering.

The man next to her father tried to coax a laugh from Lord Eddard.  He smiled at whatever jape other man had said and the well-humored man looked satisfied. Three women and most of the men turned down the aisle and walked to the second table. The lords, one lady, and the children continued to up the dais.

“Lord Hornwood, may I present Lady Catelyn Stark, my sons, Robb and Bran, and my daughters, Sansa and Arya. The others are my ward -Theon Greyjoy, Maester Luwin, Vayon Poole, and his daughter Jeyne. Lord Cerwyn, you know them all too well for another list of introductions. Please alert Lord Hornwood if you see my boys attempt to visit some mischief upon him,” Ned said with a wry grin. Lord Medger Cerwyn was a frequent guest at Winterfell and gave Bran an exaggerated wink.

“Well met. My lord, let me name you my household. This precious beauty -despite her long years- is my wife, Donella.” Lady Hornwood bowed to the table collectively, and then gave her husband a poke in his ribs. “This is my son and heir, Daryn. The lass next to him is my niece -Rodnel’s girl, Lydrea.”

They bowed and curtsied, respectively. The three lords and the two ladies took their seats at the head of the table. Lady Catelyn must have handed the baby to a handmaiden or Septa Mordane when Arya‘s attention was elsewhere, because she didn't see him anymore. Now that the houses had been presented, the boys slid down the table to make room for the men. Arya guessed that the three who had stood silently behind Lords Hornwood and Cerwyn were stewards or held some such post. Daryn sat across from Robb, and Bran eagerly shouldered a place for himself next to his brother. Sansa rolled her eyes at that and Jeyne giggled beside her. Arya gave Jeyne a wide birth, but was still too far from the end of the table to talk to Jon. Lydrea Hornwood glanced from Sansa and Jeyne to Arya before seating herself opposite the girls from Winterfell.

The feast began with a creamy goat’s milk stew clumped with carrots and sweet corn, accompanied by the bread buns with flaking crusts that Arya had been sampling before she first arrived in the Great Hall. Arya eagerly ripped her roll in half and scooped up the stew. She had little need of spoons when the cooks baked this type of bread.

Arya was startled by a tap of someone’s foot on her knee. She dropped her bread into her soup bowl and turned to Jeyne and Sansa on her left. She glared at them, but they took no notice. Engrossed in their whispers, they exchanged secrets about boys and other ladies’ nonsense.

“Psst…Arya is your name, isn’t it?”

Arya looked across the table at the quiet Hornwood girl.

She had long, brown hair tied back in a braid. The color would be plain, except that the girl’s hair shown with strands of more than one shade. A loose wisp had escaped from her well tied braid and hung from her forehead. She pulled it away from her face and tucked it behind her ear in a practiced, unthinking motion. Arya suspected that she would see that movement half a hundred times before the meal was through. Arya met the older girl’s eyes. They were a dark hazel, not quite as dark as the grey, Stark eyes that Arya had inherited from her father. The girl’s nose was just a nose, straight and short enough to suit her face. Her cheeks bore none of the pink that Arya’s sister was so proud of. Her jaw angled sharply to a round chin and a small, smiling mouth.

“Aye, you. Napkin your chin, you have stew all over it.”

Arya wiped her entire face on her sleeve.

“Thanks,” Arya said. She glanced again at Sansa to be sure that her sister had not seen her unlady-like table manners. “What is your name again? You're Lord Hornwood’s daughter, right?”

“I might as well be, but no. I’m his niece, Lydrea. How old are you?”  

Arya took a moment to remember before answering. She could see that Lydrea was perhaps four years older than her and did not want to say the wrong age. They talked between mouthfuls of stew, and then brazed elk, and finally pastries with pockets of sweet cream. Arya could not tell if Lydrea was only talking to her because Sansa and Jeyne were busy with their whispers or if the older girl liked her. Still, Arya wanted Lydrea Hornwood to be her friend.

After the meal, Arya raced around the table and took Lydrea by the hand. She wanted to show her Winterfell as only she knew it. _Who wouldn’t like to explore the castle like that?_ Sansa, though, would have scoffed at the idea and turned her chin up from her little sister. 

The modest feast had been served as soon as the guest’s caravan arrived. Arya was glad for the early meal, for it left her an extra hour or two of daylight. She guided the other girl toward the steps that led to the Great Keep. The kitchens were filled with delicious smells and smiles before a meal, but dirty bowls and annoyed looks afterwards, so Arya avoided them. In her haste, she ran into Jon and would have fallen backwards, if Lydrea hadn’t caught her. Jon arched an eyebrow at her, but she told him that the girls were going exploring and that she’d find him later. They ran up the stairs and out to the covered bridge, which overlooked the main courtyard.

“That’s where the boys get to train with swords. After my older brothers put on their padded armor, sometimes they let me hit them with a wooden sword to see if I can hit hard enough for them to feel it.”

She gave Lydrea a minute to look in both directions. From there one could see the King’s Gate, the Armory and the Barracks above it, the guest quarters, and also one of the gates into the godswood. Arya recalled just how big Winterfell can feel from up high. After pointing out what each building was, she led them back into the Great Keep, through the torch lit hallway, and outside onto the high walkway to the Library Tower.

“Next is the Library Tower, with hundreds and even thousands of books and scrolls. The Maester’s Tower is back above where we just came from, can you see it? I would show you, but if Maester Luwin finds us, he’ll probably tell me to take you back to Mother and Sansa and Lady Hornwood. Then we’ll just be stuck in a solar sipping hot-tea and curtseying at each other until I have to go to bed,” Arya offered with a slight frown.

Lydrea laughed at that. “Is that what ladies do when they visit with your mother? They curtsey?” she asked with a wry grin.

Arya knew the ladies did other things too, but she was no more interested in polite gossip or sewing than she was in curtseying for hours. Arya nodded with a smile that stretched across her face.

“The way you explained how the boys practice in the yard, it sounds like you’d rather be doing that?”

“They get to do stuff that’s more fun than sewing, but what I really like to do is run about as I please. I visit the armory and the stables. They have the tallest stableboy you’ve ever seen. He is very smiley and, no matter what you say to him, he always says, ‘Hodor,’” Arya did her best to say it the same way he did. “The other stableboys are fun too. If Hullen isn’t nearby, they tell me jokes I’m not supposed to hear and teach me words I’m not supposed to know. And the other places are just as good so I sneak in and out of them as often as I can. All of my father’s people in the castle call me, ‘Arya Underfoot’,” she stated proudly. Arya was not about to mention what Jeyne Poole called her.

“This seems like a lovely castle and you make it all the more exciting with how you speak of it. I have a question, though. When we left the dining hall, you ran straight into a boy that looks just like you. And, when you talked about the practice yard, you mentioned your older _brothers_. Is he also your brother? Not Bran or Robb, but another one?”

Arya paused for a moment. Everyone in Winterfell knew of Jon Snow, so she rarely had to explain who he was. She did not like calling him a bastard, but she was not sure how else to say it. “He is my brother too, just . . . he is my father’s son, but not my mother’s son. Most days he sits with the rest of us, but when we have lordly guests, my mother doesn't let him. Um . . . I try to sit near the end of the table and if the dais is more full I can sit close enough to jape with him. But today my mother would have made her stern face if I sat that far away from everyone else at our table.”

“Well, thanks for explaining it. You’re lucky that he gets to stay here with you. My uncle has a bastard too, but he is fostered in Deepwood Motte with the Glovers. Uncle Halys gets to visit him, but not so regularly. Daryn and I do not see him at all.”

Arya had never thought about Jon’s place in Winterfell in that light. She was very young when she first noticed how some people treated him. She hated it and thought that it was far crueler than her favorite brother deserved. Hearing about how Lydrea’s natural cousin was not even allowed to reside with his family made feel better about Jon’s position. She would have to tell him about Lord Hornwood’s other son.

“That seems even more unfair than making everyone call him ‘Snow’,” Arya said. “But what about your family? You have your cousin, but what about any brothers or sisters?”

Lydrea’s expression turned serious. She inhaled deeply before answering.

“No brothers, no sisters. My mother died birthing me. My father fell four years later. He was Lord Hornwood’s younger brother.” Lydrea appeared hesitant to talk about her parents. She turned from Arya to lean her elbows on the walkway’s rail. Looking back over her shoulder at Arya, she resumed, “I am fortunate in having an uncle like mine. He is fond of me, I know, but he knows little of raising girls. My Aunt Donella is kind, but she is usually busy with the duties of keeping a lord’s household. Any hours she can spare, she spends with Daryn, which is important because he is the heir . . . so I have my run of the castle most days.”

“You must love all that! No septa telling you what to do, no maester repeating his lessons over and again.”

Lydrea smiled at Arya’s burst of an answer. “I do enjoy being free to do as I please, but don’t you feel cared for when your septa or maester, _or your mother_ , insist that you learn to do things the proper way? Doesn’t it make you feel precious to them that they go to such trouble, as if your lessons are a vital task for a daughter of Winterfell?”

Lydrea raised her brow slightly and gave Arya a moment to think on what she had said. Arya thought that the twelve year old girl spoke like a woman grown. Not in the way that Sansa did when she reprimanded Arya for not behaving like a lady. Lydrea Hornwood’s words reminded Arya of how Ser Rodrik Cassel would explain what he thought, like she was not stupid even if she didn't know something. She thought of Lydrea with Ser Rodrik’s long grey whiskers and giggled.

Lydrea looked bemused and continued, “I spend my days differently that you would, I think. I do not like to bother the servants and I like to go to my secret nooks of the castle where no one can find me. I like the places where I can just watch the castle moving about. Places like here,” she said, gesturing to where the girls were standing with a sweeping nod. “But, my other favorite is riding!”

Arya thought about all of the things that she would do in Winterfell if no one would come chasing after her. Finding a quiet sill from which to watch the people walking or working in the yard would not be one of them.

“The stable master at home says that if mounts are boarded in their stalls for too long, they become marish, even the garrons,” Lydrea said. “So, he lets me be the one to ride them when they need it. Most of all, you have to see my Drifts.”

“What are ‘drifts’?”

“Drifts is my horse,” she answered. “My uncle let me keep him when he was still a foal. I named him ‘Drifts’ because when he was first born his shoulders and his rump were much paler than the rest of his coat and I thought that they looked like snow drifts. Don’t laugh at his name. I was littler at the time.”

Arya liked horses and could ride her pony even without Hullen or Harwin holding her lead. But, she was not nearly the horseman that Robb or Jon was.

“Then I want to go! Do you see that old tower with the broken crown?” Arya pointed and did not wait for an answer. “The stables are right over there. If we –“

“Settle, settle Arya. He’s not here. Drifts is only three and is not yet ready for heavy riding. But, in a year or so he will be perfect for it.”

In her eagerness to run to the stables, Arya had taken Lydrea’s hand once again, before she was able to interject. Arya released her hand and stepped closer. She leaned her back against the railing and waited to hear more.

“He’s a gaited palfrey and they’re the best mounts for distance. He is a mixed-blood and mostly bright red-brown, like almost the color of rust. I can only ride him in the yard just yet, but I’ve been training him since he was just a babe of a horse. He recognizes me every time I walk into the stables and he’ll be a wonderful riding horse one day, I just know.”

Arya slowly forgot about her plan to go exploring and just stayed on the walk with Lydrea. They talked about horses and Arya’s brothers and many other things. The older girl was easy to talk to and Arya did not feel like they were courteous ladies in an embroidery circle. She could shout and move about to better tell her stories and Lydrea did not once tell her to be still. The shadows below them grew long and they returned to the keep. She was surprised to see Jon lingering in the hallway nearby, but then Arya remembered that she had promised to come find him.

“Jon, this is my new friend Lydrea Hornwood. She’s Lord Hornwood’s niece. She likes horses and quiet places in her castle,” Arya stopped at that and looked at Lydrea. She was not sure if she was supposed to keep what Lydrea told her as a secret. _But, I tell Jon all my secrets._

“Well met, my lady,” Jon said. Lydrea was smiling, so Arya concluded that she did not break trust with her. “I hope that my sister did not cause you any trouble in your exploring?”

Arya gave Jon a shove against his side. She said, "I only took her up here, mostly. And we talked. . ."

Jon did not seem to be paying Arya any mind.

“Winterfell is beautiful," said the Hornwood girl. "Arya’s stories make her little adventures sound wondrous. And, she had quite a lot to say about you . . . and her other brothers.”

Arya slung an arm around the small of her brother's back and leaned her weight against him. Lydrea and Jon kept talking, but Arya began to feel sleepy. She wondered why she wanted to run to the stables just a little while earlier. Now, she would much rather walk to her bed. 

She was happy to feel Jon bend down and pick her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder.

As she closed her eyes, Arya Stark heard, “Come, Lady Lydrea. Let me bring my sister to her chambers, and then I will escort you to the guest quarters.”


	3. Jon - A Day in the Godswood

No matter how Jon turned in his bed, he couldn’t settle himself into a comfortable position. His chest was aflutter with nervous excitement. Even alone in the pitch darkness, Jon tried to hide his smile. He did not know what he wanted to do right then, but he was sure that he did not desire sleep. Jon wished he still shared a room with his brother, Robb. His slightly older brother had more experience with what stirred Jon. _Robb would know what to do._

Only a short while earlier, Lydrea Hornwood followed Jon as he carried his little sister to her room. Arya had fallen asleep almost as soon as he picked her up. Both Jon and Lydrea were silent on their walk to the opposite side of the Great Keep. After Jon quietly closed Arya’s door, he was desperate to find the right words. When Arya first introduced him to Lydrea, he had more than enough to say. If anything, he'd been flooded with too much to say. Alone with her in the torch lit corridor, Jon was at a loss. They reached the stairs before Jon thought to offer Lydrea his arm. She looped her arm through his and offered him a quick smile before looking down at the steps. When they reached the guest quarters, she thanked him. Jon had bid her a good night and turned away before hearing her.

“Jon” she said. “Might be that I would like to see the godswood on the morrow. If that wouldn’t be improper or disagreeable. . . ”

He'd consented by way of a smile and a nod, then walked back to his room.

Jon drew his furs up to cover his shoulder and shifted onto his side. He told himself that he would do better in the morning. _She wouldn't be embarrassed by the company of bastard, or would she. . ._  

 _No,_ he concluded. _She smiled and took my arm. She asked for me to accompany her._ He would push aside his tense nerves and impress Lydrea, he told himself. How one went about such a task, he didn't know.

 

* * *

 

Jon Snow rose shortly after dawn the following morning. He made his way to the kitchens and broke his fast while the cooks were still preparing the meal. Anxious to begin this particular day, he stepped out of the Great Hall as most of the castle was only beginning to stir. He looked across the yard and saw the wisps of black smoke from Mikken lighting his forge. Suddenly, Jon realized that he had nothing to do; he hadn’t intended to do anything this early. Seeing no better option, he walked to the armory and Mikken.

Winterfell’s armory was not nearly so old as its castle walls or its towers, but the grey stones had stood long enough that few could discern that it was only a few centuries old. Jon entered through the armory’s open twin doors.

“Nothing better to do on this morn’ than wander into my smithy, eh?” Mikken teased. He was a stout man with thick arms. Most days he wore only breeches and his apron, even when cold winds blew in from the north. On this day, he wore a blackened tunic, which may have once been green, with his sleeves bunched up to his elbows.

“I suppose I could lend you my hands," Jon said. "I do not see either of your boys about.”

“Them two ‘prentices aren't worth a bear’s fart until they’ve broke their fast. There,” Mikken gestured to a wood pile on the opposite wall. “Go ‘head and toss in three of those logs.”

After Jon threw them on top of the kindling in the kiln-brick forge, Mikken said, “While we wait for them to catch, I s'pose I could teach you a thing or three about smithing. This here is pig-iron, it's shipped up the White Knife by traders. Iron is iron and one need not know the good from the poor. Is all the same.”

Mikken reached into one shelf pulled out a slim, round bar of steel, near as long as a dirk. He tossed it to Jon. The metal was heavier than he'd expected, even knowing the weight of a real sword.

“You look at that steel, then look at this,” said Mikken as he pulled out a similar bar half way out of the upper shelf.

Jon could see no difference with the first, save for its length.

“Does you know the first thin' about forging a sword?”

“The first is iron ore, dug from the ground,” Jon said. “Then you make iron, then steel. You heat the steel and then hammer out a blade. Last comes the crossguard and the rest.”

“Ho –huff!” Mikken’s laugh turning into a cough before the breath was half way out of his chest. “You make it out to be so easy, boy. Mayhaps, I can leave you to the steelwork and wander off to find me a wench in Wintertown.”

The blacksmith stepped towards the forge and turned the left side of his face to the flame. He seemed pleased by the heat, added four logs to the furnace, and continued the lesson. “If the day e'er comes that your lord father or Poole ever sends you off for supplies, you remember this: good steel ‘nd bad steel looks much the same. Takes half a lifetime to learn to smelt iron into ingots –them steel sticks in the shelves. For sword steel, don’t bother with any smith who claims his is the best prices at market. You find yourself an ol' master and you pay him his silver, or mayhaps gold dragons.

"If some merchant sot sells you poor steel and your smith clangs out a sword for you, say he does e’erything as he ‘pose to, you are not like to notice the difference until some knightly whoreson’s blade shatters yours. For a timber axe or a gate hinge, don’t you worry none about paying good coin. But for swords, you find yourself steel you can trust. You heat it white-hot before you quench it. If the bloody thing only glows orange, when comes time you need bet your life on a blade, you’ll find it softer than a dead man’s cock. Huff, huar, huff! There’s the flattening and folding and tempering in a low flame and the rest, but that’s a lesson for another day.”

Mikken laid two ashen swords into the fire and closed the brick-face door. After a short while, he opened the forge. Jon looked in and saw the glowing, yellow blades.

“The flames are a pale yellow; you should leave them in for a bit longer.”

Mikken laughed at that and replied, “Boy, I’m only tempering the blade, heatin’ it up a bit, seeing as these swords are all but done. That color is only from what smiths call _maiden’s heat_. In the forging I did yesterday, the coal makes them glow yellow then red then blue, then, hours later, red again and finally white. The glow you want is the _old whore’s heat_. She’s already made the rounds, yellow and red and such. And, she’s the one you want to be pounding in the end! Hough-har!”

Jon grinned at the Northman's coarse humor and peered out the armory's doors. Seeing that the castle had awoken, Jon Snow reminded Mikken not to burn his fingers off and left the burly blacksmith to his work.

Bran was running out of the Great Hall and swung around the side of the keep. If he had seen any other boy at such a sprint, Jon would have been alarmed. His younger brother, though, only seemed to be capable of two paces, still and full gallop. After Bran, others filtered out of the tall doors at a more civil speed. Jon stood aside, waiting. He hoped that Robb and Theon would not pass by, as Jon wished for another’s company that day.

Sansa, Jeyne, and Lydrea were the next to step into the courtyard. Through the scattering men, Jon saw Lydrea give his sister an eager wave before making her way toward him. Sansa saw Jon and her smile became a look of confusion, then a grimace.

“Ly- my lady,” Jon sputtered.

“My lord,” Lydrea responded.

He was not lord in truth, of course. He had no lands or great title to inherit, but he liked the courtesy and did not see fit to correct her.

“The godswood, then? The stories say that the trees have been untouched by any axe for more than eight thousand years.” Jon was less interested in telling history, than he was in seeking privacy.

“Please, lead the way,” she said.

Jon took her across the yard and the open pavilion. The open gate to the godswood was heavy and stubborn. Rarely did anyone trouble themselves to shut it. Once inside the forest within the castle, Lydrea said she was surprised by the size and stillness of it. She explained that in Castle Hornwood, nowhere in the much small godswood was ever out of site of the castle towers. On the rare day that her amiable uncle sought solemn prayer to the old gods, he would ride out beyond the gates into the surrounding woods, she explained.

“In my uncle’s forest, the Hornwood, you’re far more likely to come upon elk or moose than bears or wolves. By name alone, I’d suspect that your _Wolfswood_  outside this castle is more dangerous.”

“It is not so troublesome as it sounds," he told her. "But, I still would not advise my lady to seek out any wolf pelts alone.”

Jon and Lydrea wound their between the sentinels and firs. Each ancient tree left little light beneath its branches. Darting from shadows to light, Jon tried to lead her around the gnarled roots and thorny undergrowth. Every few paces, he looked back over his shoulder to make sure that she was not having difficulty. Her steps were steady. Jon turned fully around when they reached their destination.

“Have you ever felt a hot pool before?" He told her, "Water bubbles up from the depths.”

“How far down does it go?” Lydrea asked.

“No one knows. If you drop a stone into the side with the churning bubbles, you’ll never see it again. No one will, not in thousands and hundreds of years.”

Jon tried to sound ominous, but she just giggled. He continued, “The water isn’t like the still pools elsewhere in the godswood. It’s hotter than you’d ever guess. Try it!”

Lydrea arched an eyebrow at him. “Would you have me leap in? Wearing my dress and all?”

Jon laughed at that and clarified that he only meant for her to dip a toe in. Her left foot stepped on the heel of her right and she slide from her dark leather shoe.  Jon took his first long look at the girl. The glances that he shot her way during the feast had never lingered longer than a moment. She wore a dress of dark green wool. The folds of its white hem deepened as she lifted its skirt. Jon had never thought much on women’s garments, yet still he noticed that she wore no stockings. The bodice of her dress laced in the front and was tied loosely with black leather. Lydrea had pulled her brown hair behind her shoulders. A thin brass chain looped twice around the back of her unplaided hair.

“It’s hot!” Lydrea exclaimed withdrawing her foot. Jon raised his brow at that. She dipped her toes back into the pool and splashed at him.

They sat down together on the dry forest floor. He snapped an inch off a twig and threw it into the water.

Lydrea asked him about his sisters and the baby, then about Bran, and finally Robb.

He said, “Having him around is almost like having a twin. Robb has always been with me. Most every memory I have includes him too. One day, he will be a great lord.” Jon stopped. A thought occurred to him:

_Robb._

As far back as Jon could remember, visiting lords had encouraged their daughters to dance with his brother at feasts. Robb gave few of them second glances. He liked the attention, Jon knew, and was more teasing in his japes than Jon ever dared to be. However, none had succeeded in catching the heir of Winterfell’s eye enough for him to approach his lord father for a match.

_Is this Lord Hornwood’s doing? Befriend the bastard brother and win the affections of the would-be lord?_

Jon noticed that Lydrea was staring, obviously waiting for him to continue.

“When he is a man grown, he will be the desire of every girl in the North. . .”

“I’m sure that your father will find him a fair daughter of a high lord to be his Lady of Winterfell. Fathers know how important a good match can be for the family, for the House. Wedding your daughter to a lord’s son is the oldest seal of an alliance. Fathers often spend years mulling over matches.”

“I suppose that your father has some match in mind. . .”

“Jon," she replied with a subtle edge to her voice. "My _uncle_ has probably thought about my hand, but nieces are not equal to daughters. A lord cannot so easily buy an ally with his brother’s offspring. That marriage doesn’t bind the houses the same. I hear how ladies talk. Daughters are traded with little enough regard by their fathers. Few lords think that an uncle would care enough about his niece’s welfare to guarantee his allegiance.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean. . .” Jon wondered if his father had ever thought of securing a wife for him. He guessed not. Jon could only give a wife, or a son, a bastard’s name or no name at all. He clenched shut his eyes and drew in his breath. It was all he could do to hold in the unwelcome emotion. He felt her squeeze his arm.

“Whatever troubles you, we are alone,” Lydrea said. “You can trust me with whatever you’re trying not to say.”

“My lady . . . I just . . .”

Jon looked into her eyes and saw her resolve. Despite his instincts, he longed to explain the thoughts that ran through his mind. “Even as little boys, Robb and I knew visiting _bannermen_ often meant visiting _daughters_. The girls would present him with carved wooden horses, and the like, from their fathers. Later came toy swords and painted shields. Of late, the gifts that lords insist that their daughters give my brother are smiles and dances.”

“And perhaps you guessed that I’m biding my time before doing likewise? Is that what you think of me?” Still patient with him, Lydrea’s tone conveyed her curiosity. “I notice more than you think, Jon Snow. When lords sit in your Great Hall, the heir receives praise and, as you say, gifts. The forgotten child receives a reminder of their place.”

Jon glared into the water. He offered no response.

“Robb Stark will inherit your father’s lordship. His place will be in Winterfell. He can no more be rid of that position, than you can expect to take it.”

“ _Be rid of it?_ What do you mean by that? Winterfell’s the greatest seat in the North. It rivals any castle in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Lydrea giggled at him.

“I do not mean to insult your home, Jon. Only, what if Robb ever wished to . . . um . . . ride south and live off the skill of his sword? What if he wished to sail amidst the Step Stones aboard a pirate captain’s galley? Or even to find himself a pretty wife and breed horses in peace, without the burdens of a lordship?

“No matter what he would wish or desire," she said, "your brother can have naught else but your father’s and grandfather’s life. Jon, what do _you_ wish for? Forgive me, but, a bastard son is free in way that heirs are not.”

Without forethought or carefully crafted words, Jon told her that he hadn’t thought much on his place, his fate. He explained that the uncertainty scared him, or at least he thought it did. Jon knew that he did not wish to father a bastard or to burden anyone he cared for with his shameful surname. Lydrea listened to his clumsy words with understanding in her eyes.

“I know many of the same worries. I never knew my mother. You still have your father, and try as he might an uncle will never replace a father. But, Lady Donella is more of a mother to me than Lady Stark appears to be, for you. A natural son, though, is free from the restraints of duty. He’s free from any political match . . . And from his father’s fate, for better or not.” Lydrea smiled at him and finished, “Your fate’s not so bleak as you say, Jon Snow the Sullen!”

With her words still ringing in Jon’s mind, Lydrea slipped on her shoe, let loose a sharp chuckle, and ran off the way they had first come. After a moment of doubt, he chased after her. Side by side, they ran out of the godswood and passed the pavilion stalls with leaves in their hair and dirt-tinged clothes.

“Seems to me, the moose-mare is fond of the snow! We can all hope that she hasn’t dirtied herself overmuch in her frolics!”

Jon looked up to see Theon Greyjoy smirking down at him from the bridge overlooking the practice yard. Robb and Daryn Hornwood stood on either side of him with bows in their hands. Jon flushed with embarrassment. Feeling the instant ache in his chest, he might as well have been struck with one of Greyjoy’s arrows.

Daryn laughed. He did not appear to be one to take japes to heart.

Theon looked overly pleased with himself.

Robb was stunned and said nothing.

Seeing the array of arrows feathering the hay bales and dirt surrounding the archer’s target on the far side of the practice yard and more than half a hundred paces away, Jon could guess at what they'd been doing all morning. On another day, he would have joined them. Not today and not after Theon’s mockery. Jon thanked Lydrea for her company. Dumbfounded, he gestured with an open hand at the guest quarters, as if she did not know where they were.

Then, Jon Snow trudged off to nowhere in particular. He heard Robb call out to him. He neither looked back, nor listened to his brother's words.


	4. Catelyn - A Proposition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta, [Winter_Wolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_Wolf/pseuds/Winter_Wolf) , finished "If That Will Move Her", a unique look at an unusual pairing. Definitely worth a read!

Lady Catelyn was rearranging her sleeping furs. Her new maid proved unfamiliar with how to properly lay bedding, despite all the years that her mother filled the same role adequately. Catelyn heard a knock on the door of her sleeping quarters.

 

She stopped in the middle of her task and answered, "Yes? Enter." She expected to see her maid and untucked the corner of the bedding so that she could instruct the girl. When her gaze rose to see who she had admitted to her rooms, Catelyn quickly pulled her hands from the furs and linens. She straightened her posture to reach her full height and asked, "What brings you here?" The tone of her voice was warmer than she had intended, due to her utter disbelief that this boy would ever approach her here.

 

Her husband's bastard son must have thought her tone welcoming, because he gently shut the door behind him and stepped forward. Catelyn took a moment to look him over. At two-and-ten years, this boy was looking more and more like her husband. His grey eyes and dark features were a further reminder of her husband's shameful indiscretion.

 

"Lady Stark, I hope that I find you well,” he began. "I had hoped that you would spare a few minutes so that I may speak with you."

 

Catelyn could see in the boy’s expression that any mistaken warmth from her brief response had been righted by her glare. Jon Snow stood as straight as his boyish frame, which was yet to gain even a modest amount of girth, would allow. Catelyn noticed that his eyes were staring at the wall beside her, rather than meeting her gaze. She had seen this look often, but not from him. This was the formal stance of a castle guard. _This boy thinks himself Jory Cassel . . . or at least Fat Tom._

 

Lady Catelyn found herself more curious than she would have expected. "Searching me out in my chambers is less than appropriate. But, speak what you will."

 

"I have come to make a request of you, Lady Stark. As you well know, I would only be here if I thought the matter . . . important."

 

Catelyn's only reply was to raise her eyebrows and gesture with an upended palm.

 

At her conveyed impatience, Jon Snow relaxed his shoulders and met her eyes. "My lady, have you ever thought on my future? On where I will be in ten, twenty years?" he asked.

 

Catelyn often mused about which barren wasteland she would prefer to send her husband's bastard. "Boy, ask what you will and be gone.”

 

"Lord Stark will not send me from this castle. And his heir . . . will not either. In ten years, your daughters will be married and living on their lord husbands’ lands. Your two youngest sons will be preparing to begin their families in holdfasts of their own. . . And yet, I will still be here. Your own lord husband’s heir will, mayhaps, name me as the captain of his guard. Might be, I will live out my days teaching my nephews to use sword and bow, and my nights pacing the walls of Winterfell.”

 

Lady Catelyn could feel her face flush at the thought of enduring this bastard boy in her home for the rest of her years.

 

Jon Snow continued, "Such would be a good life and more than most bastards dare aspire to."

 

Catelyn's temper took hold of her. She hissed, "I will not tolerate mockery in my home! You dare come into my chambers to remind me that someday all, save one, of my children will make their homes elsewhere, and I will still be forced to endure your presence?"

 

The boy, with his mockery of Stark features, shifted his weight and glanced at his boots, but did not move to leave her room. He thumbed the center lace of his doublet; which was shabby by noble standards, but more than a baseborn bastard had right to expect. Jon Snow slouched in place, as if the weight of the words he wished to say lay heavy atop the shoulders.

 

"Lady Stark, I do not intend . . . that . . . to give offense,” he sputtered. “Only, I expect that you would choose different for me. The request I now make of you, is thus: Help me find another path . . . one beyond these walls. Ser Rodrik told me that lowborn men who receive knighthood choose names of their own for their new, knightly Houses. In the North, knighthood means little and is uncommon. It is a Southron custom rooted in the Seven new gods, as you well know. Would you write to Riverrun. . . and. . . request that they allow me to squire-”

 

“What?” Catelyn responded. She could not remember a more inappropriate question in her life, nor one easier to deny. “As if seeing your wretched face in Winterfell is not shameful enough, you would have me let you parade around my father’s castle?! Slump your grubby attire, and the jape you make of noble courtesy, out my quarters. Never presume yourself so familiar again. I owe you nothing! You have taken more than your due these last two-and-ten years. The Others can take your wishes.”

 

Catelyn turned from the bastard. She leaned to her right to tuck the bedding that she had forgotten back into her featherbed. Lady Catelyn’s hope that her words were stern enough to put an end to this farce went unfulfilled. Jon Snow had not moved. Catelyn had no reason to think that any of her husband’s guard was within earshot of her room, but she suspected that if she were to shout, at least one servant would hear.

 

“Please. . .  I know asking this of you is beyond odd,” Jon said. “You have every right to demand that I leave. But, think on where this will lead.”

 

Lady Catelyn did not imagine that she would ever acquiesce to any of this folly. However, she refrained from calling out for the moment.

 

The boy took the momentary silence as Catelyn’s leave to continue. “I will spend six years, or so, squiring for a knight in Lord Tully’s employ. When my time comes, Lady Stark, I will sit vigil in a sept, kneel before a Riverland knight, and whatever else is required of me. I will rise as a knight. My lady, I will be afforded a name of my choosing and status enough to take a wife, land, and a keep of mine own.”

 

Catelyn’s mouth gaped open, but no sound sprung forth. Jon Snow stared at her intently and resumed, “Not only will I possess control of my own fate, but, more to my point, I will live outside the walls of Winterfell. My lady, if you know of a better, more expedient way to send me from your view, please tell me, ‘cept of course sending me to any of the seven hells,” he finished with a controlled hint of a grin.

 

 _And there lays the baited hook_ , she realized. The _Starks_ tended to speak so plainly, that even this modest dramatic flourish must have taken the boy hours, if not days, to plan.

 

Catelyn reflected on her near impossible choice. The thought of watching her son training in the yard with her husband’s shame during her later years made her skin itch. Even worse, the picture in her mind’s eye of staring from her window and seeing this black haired embodiment of her husband’s broken vow playfully instructing her grandsons with wooden swords was more than she could bear.

 

This bastard boy would not be news to her family. Her brother, her father, and the Tully household knew of Jon Snow. When she first told Edmure about the bastard in her home, two years had passed since the rebellion had ended; he offered a tender squeeze of her shoulder and some sympathetic words, long since forgotten. Lord Hoster gave her no more than a gruff snort. He had married his two daughters to the Wardens North and East before the Riverlands’ part in King Robert’s ascension began. To him, his fatherly responsibility ended on the day of her and Lysa’s wedding. Catelyn’s Uncle Brynden had seemed understanding of Ned Stark’s behavior, having spent the better part of his life in the company of soldiers. Yet, his protective posturing and stern words for the young Lord Stark were supportive of Catelyn without requiring justification.

 

An old worry leapt into Lady Catelyn’s mind. During her first year in Winterfell, she fretted over her son’s birthright. Robert Baratheon was king and her new husband’s dearest friend. In those days, Ned exchanged letters with Jon Arryn frequently. Every raven from King’s Landing had made her heart twist in her chest. _It is only a matter of time before the King’s Hand sends a declaration with the king’s own seal legitimizing Jon Snow as Jon Stark, second in line for his father’s lordship._ She did not understand why Ned hadn’t written to Robert about his bastard. He doted on Jon Snow, as much as he did her Robb. After so many years, a new concern occurred to Catelyn. _Perhaps Ned is only waiting for the boy to be a man grown before asking Robert to remove the bastard surname._ She was not entirely acquainted with the Northern rights of succession. To her, they seemed less formal than those of the Riverlands and the South. It might be that Jon, if legitimized by a royal decree, would come before her Bran and baby Rickon. If Robb sired only daughters, a black haired, grey-eyed son of Jon might sit in the Lord of Winterfell’s chair and wield the ancient Stark greatsword.

 

_If Jon Snow held a knight’s name, surely Ned would not feel compelled to gift the boy his._

 

“So, boy, if I were to aid you in this folly, would you swear to never set foot within Winterfell again?”

 

Snow had the gall to deny her request. He shook his head and replied, “Lady Stark, that is more than I can promise.”

 

“I’ll not endure any of this only to see _Ser Snow_ residing on Stark lands and riding to Winterfell to sup. No, I will have your word that you will reside elsewhere. Nor in Riverrun, either,” she added hastily. “You will find your own place in service to some lord, guarding some merchant, or in some sod hut and it will be at a distance from here. Torrhen’s Square is forty-odd leagues from Winterfell, that far at least. If you will not consent to _never_ returning, fine; you will _seldom_ return here, solely for occasions or urgent matters.”

 

Jon Snow bowed his head in agreement.

 

“To finally be rid of you, I would crawl through dragonsbreath. The Seven help me,” Catelyn said, shaking her head. “I will send a raven to my father at Riverrun and my uncle, the Blackfish, at the Gates of the Moon. You will squire for Ser Brynden Tully at Riverrun,” she said with a smirk. “He will be irked enough to be back in my father’s home and he will show you little sympathy in your training. Expect long days and more bruises than in all your years in Winterfell.”

 

Catelyn pretended not to notice the excitement barely contained behind Jon Snow’s contemplative expression. She warned, “He will require you to prove yourself before he’ll ever consider touching his blade to your shoulders. If you are killed or maimed in some battle, do not expect empathy from me.”

 

The woman who was once a Tully girl paused for one final moment to ponder this most unlikely of agreements. After a deep breath, she declared, “You have my consent. Be gone from here. Do not expect me to rock you to sleep at night. You are still Lord Eddard’s bastard, but at least I know that you will be, at long last, out of my sight.”

 

Jon Snow gave her a respectful bow, with as solemn a face as he could muster. He pulled open the oak door and all but skipped out into the hallway. _Ned should have sent him away twelve years ago. Now I have done what Lord Stark could not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this story, or if you think I could improve it, I'd love to see your comments.


	5. Eddard - An Interruption

Ned Stark dropped the parchment and rubbed his eyes. They were weary from looking over ledgers from Vayon Poole and Maester Luwin. Ned glanced out the window of his solar to see that dusk was nearly upon him. He could not recall how long ago the two men had left his solar, but supposed that an hour or three had passed. After all of his years, Lord Stark still tired of this task. Nonetheless, he knew how important the provisions in his castle stores would be. Not even the maesters of the Citadel knew for certain how long this summer would last. When winter arrived, the White Knife would freeze and the roads would become treacherous. Food was mayhaps the most important of supplies, but far from the only thing needed to survive winter. A knock on the heavy door mercifully brought Ned back from the worries of winter. He gladly bid whoever waited outside to enter.

 

Robb opened the door slowly, but once inside the lad looked as if he wanted to slam the oak to kindling. “Father, is it true about Jon?” he asked.

 

Ned thought that his heir might have sought any manner of truths. Rather than answering, he waited for Robb to explain his meaning.

 

His son saw the lack of understanding written on his face. “That he's leaving for Riverrun, of course. What else would I be asking about?”

 

This certainly was not one of the meanings that Ned expected to hear. “Riverrun? No, I cannot imagine a suitable cause for Jon to travel there. Why do you ask?”

 

“He only just told me, and I ran straight here. Mother agreed to send word to Grandfather and her uncle, Brynden the Blackfish. Jon is to squire in Riverrun.”

 

Ned would have thought his son’s words part of some jest if not for the worry on Robb’s face. He trusted his wife in all matters, save those that concerned Jon Snow. Ned knew that Catelyn did not care for the boy; on more than one occasion she’d asked that he be sent from Winterfell. Each time, Ned baulked at the requests.  _After our last dispute, does she intend some treachery upon the boy?_

 

Before Ned’s dark musings could take root, the door swung open again.

 

“Why does he have to go?!” Arya shouted, not feeling the need for specifics.

 

“Robb, Arya, this is the first I have heard of anything regarding Jon. I know nothing of this.” Ned assumed that Arya had also come sprinting to him immediately upon hearing this news from Jon. Feeling dumbfounded, he asked, “What is this all about?”

 

Before Robb could answer, Arya jumped in front of him and insisted, “He’s being stupid and doesn’t want to talk about it! But,  _I’m_  not stupid, I know what’s going on. He thinks that if he were a knight, then  _Lady Lydrea_  would want to marry him and then they’d have babies!”

 

Robb pulled her back and scoffed. “What would  _you_  know of babies?”

 

Ned stifled his laughter. He sent his daughter to find Jon and bring the boy to him.

 

* * *

 

When Jon stepped across the threshold, he wore an anxious smile. Ned told Robb and Arya to return to their rooms. He wished to speak frankly with Jon and did not want the other children to eavesdrop. Robb scooped up a reluctant Arya and carried her under his arm.

 

“So this is not some jest you have told the two of them,” Ned began with a smile. “What, pray tell, is going on in my household?”

 

Jon confirmed what Robb had said, while excluding how in the gods’ mercy he had convinced Catelyn to be a part of this and any mention of babies.

 

Lord Eddard replied, “If you three were, in fact, performing some mummer’s farce at my expense, it would not be as ridiculous as the truth. I want to know what Lady Catelyn said about this idea, but first lay out your own reasoning.”

               

“Father, I will soon be a man grown, have you not thought on what future awaits me?” Jon’s question, though softly asked, was more of an accusation than a query.

 

“I must admit that I have not put proper thought into your place once you reach manhood. It seems to me only a moon’s turn ago that you and Robb first began to run about the grounds. Perhaps you have some thoughts on the matter?” Ned shifted in his seat and sat a bit straighter.

 

“Winterfell is my home and I will always think of it like that. But, they will always see me as your . . . bastard. The Bastard of Winterfell is a burdensome title.”

 

Ned had never heard Jon speak of his parentage in such blunt terms.

 

“If I am to ever hold a place of mine own. . . I have to leave.”

 

Jon’s solemn look crept into a grin, and he said, “I’ve struck a bargain with Lady Stark. She will arrange for me to squire for her uncle; she assured me that her family wouldn’t refuse her. I hope to earn a knighthood and with it the right to replace ‘Snow’ with a surname of my own.”

 

Ned said nothing in return. He simply listened and watched Jon plan a fate for himself.

 

“When I’m truly a man grown, with a proper title, I can take a wife and start a new house. I’ll be a bannerman of Robb’s and perhaps he’ll agree to foster his nephews when they’re old enough. Think of that, Father! My  _sons_  learning to ride and swing a sword alongside Robb’s. And. . . they will bear their  _father’s_  name. They’ll never be addressed as ‘Snow’.”

  

Jon continued, “Father, I promised to abide by a concession, and I know not how to proceed.”

 

Worry crept over the boy’s hopeful expression, and he shifted in place.

 

Ned told him that he would do anything in his power to help.

 

“I gave Lady Stark my word that once I’ve been knighted. . . that I’ll leave Winterfell and the surrounding Stark lands. She did not want me to live in the castle or in any of the nearby holdfasts, and to only return on occasions: name days, the harvest feast, and the like. What do I do? Father, where will I go?”

 

Ned felt a sense of pride in the boy.  _Jon will make for a caring father._  

 

“I can ask my bannermen for them to fit you with a holdfast on their lands,” Ned suggested.

 

“No, Father. As the  _Lord of Winterfell_  and  _Warden of the North_ , your request isn’t any different from a command. They couldn’t refuse you and may come to resent me.” Jon softly kicked at the floorboards before looking up with uncertainty in his eyes. “I am going to such lengths to be my own man. . . can you think of anything else?”

 

Lord Eddard regarded this for a moment. While he respected Jon for the desire, he couldn’t reconcile Jon’s firm position on help from him, with the boy’s request of his wife.

 

“My son, I understand a man’s desire to strike out on his own, with little charity from others. If this is so important to you, why did you approach Lady Catelyn for her help?”

 

Jon let out brief laugh. He shook his head as if he still could not believe that Catelyn consented. Jon crossed the room and took a seat opposite Ned. He explained, “Firstly, I was more surprised when I heard her agree than you are now. On my honor, I swear it was all I could do to keep myself from fleeing when she first denied me.”

 

Ned chuckled. With a training sword in hand, Jon seemed fearless in the yard. Even on the afternoons following a thrashing from Jory Cassel or one of the other guardsmen, Jon still stood his ground. To think of this tall lad, about to face proper knights a thousand leagues and half again from home, shaking at the sight of Eddard’s wife was quite amusing.

 

Jon said, “Asking for her help is different from letting you ask Lord Glover or Lady Mormont for help. Lady Stark could have denied me and told me to bugger off. She did so no less than three times, using her own words of course. Also, her aid comes at a price. I know that she has asked you to send me from Winterfell. Did you know that she has yelled that I have to leave here  _to my face?_ And worse. . .”

 

The pace of Jon’s breath had visibly increased. He inhaled deeply before correcting himself, “Father, I shouldn’t have mentioned that. Those days are in the past and if we can only find some hovel where I can live, everything else will align.”

 

Ned Stark looked down at the ledgers still laying before him. For a moment, he thought of salted fish and coal for the forge. An idea came to him. “Jon, would a keep of a different sort be amenable? One perhaps a few days ride from Winterfell, but on its own nonetheless.”

 

Ned waited for a nod of agreement before elaborating, “The Wolfswood is dotted with old holdfasts and towers. Most have long since fallen to ruin, but I have seen, perhaps two or three that still stand. With enough time and working hands, I expect that the best of the holdfasts would make a fine seat for a landed knight.”

 

The faces of Eddard and Jon shown with startlingly similar smiles.

 

“How long do Southron boys squire before they become ‘Sers’? I wager five years or near enough to make no matter. Even if I’m wrong and it takes you, say, ten or more years to earn their oils and anointments,” Eddard gave the boy a mirthful grin to show that he was only teasing and not mocking his pursuit, “I’ll make use of that time. I’ll pay good silver to woodsmen from Wintertown and masons from White Harbor, and be glad for it. That will be my gift to you. And don’t think to reject it; this is something that a father should do for a son.”

 

Ned got to his feet, and Jon pounced into an embrace.

 

They left the solar together. Jon turned and headed for the stairs.  _Off to find Robb and a skin of wine, most like._  

 

Ned took one step to his left, towards the children’s rooms. He stopped before taking a second.

 

Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell was unsure of which duty he was supposed to fulfill first: his duty as a father or as a husband.

 

Duty aside, he found himself far too curious about precisely how Jon had earned Catelyn’s consent. Thus, Ned turned on his heels and strode off to her chambers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thrilled to see the comments to the last chapter! Again, if you like this story, or if you think I could improve it, I'd love to read your comments.


	6. Jon - A Venture Out

Though the sun had nearly touched the horizon, Jon remained seated on his mossy rock in Riverrun’s godswood. He had spent a moon’s turn in this Southron castle, serving as Ser Brynden the Blackfish’s squire. He leant down to dip his roughspun rag into the thin stream, then resumed scouring the old knight’s armor. Ser Brynden chastised him about everything he did, even his scrubbing. _Circles, Jon. Never forth and back._

 

 Jon looked at the woods about him. The trees were more sparse here than in Winterfell’s ancient godswood. Light easily found its way through the canopy onto the mossy forest floor, even at that late hour. This place had none of the solemnity that Jon was accustomed to finding in a godswood: bubbling brooks instead of still pools of black water, flowering trees rather than grey-green pines, and no deep set eyes weeping blood red sap. Even the smell, all flowers and grass, reminded Jon that he was in a place better suited for children’s play than heartfelt reflection.

 

Jon tucked the washing cloth into his belt and tossed the Blackfish’s pale blue armor over his shoulder. He kicked a pebble out of the stream before taking his feet. He mused that this Southron godswood had its own charms. Jon was far from ready to take this for a godswood in truth, and, without a carved weirwood, most like he never would. Still, days in this garden of redwoods were filled with life. During the day, bees, song birds, and stumbling children with their nursemaids filled the wood with the sounds of summer. But just before evenfall, Jon could find solitude between the trees. Most days, he would find his way to a new spot along one of the streams or beneath the dark auburn trunks and set about one task or another. Doing so reminded him of his father.

 

Early in the day, squiring resembled far less the duties of a knight, than those of a handmaiden. His waking mornings were filled with fetching watered wine and charred fish.  Once the sun had risen properly, Jon would tend their horses, his mare and Ser Brynden’s courser. Between these morning duties and the ones he performed at the close of each day, he trained.

 

Though Jon was his only squire, the Blackfish had taken over the training of all of Riverrun’s squires and young knights from Ser Desmond Grell, upon his return to Riverrun. Ser Desmond did not seem put out by this. In fact, he spent most of his time in the yard each day leaning on a fence laughing from that portly belly of his at everything Ser Brynden shouted at the boys.

 

Jon thought the Blackfish was too slow in seeing his skill with a sword. In Winterfell, Jon was leaner than Robb and most of the boys who were training to be guards. He had to rely on his quickness more than his strength. Here, however, he was noticeably taller than the other boys his age and stronger than most. With a sword in his hand, he could disarm any of them. And yet, the Blackfish held back his praise. He insisted that Jon learn to joust. Crouching a lance properly and aiming the tip at straw turnstiles seemed useless to Jon. _Even ahorse, a sword is the better weapon_.

 

“What good is charging with an eight foot lance over anywhere but flat ground?” Jon asked aloud in the privacy of the godswood.

 

Surrounded by foes in a real battle, Jon thought that a sword or even an axe was the fitting choice of arms. No matter how often he felled an opponent with a blunted sword in his hand and his boots in the mud, Jon would be teased for not riding like a proper southern knight. _Straight back. Knees steady._ Riding a forest trail like that was a quick way to find one’s self bumped out of the saddle.

 

“Do you not have mounts in the North, Jon Snow?” the squires would jape.

“Yes they do, but only bears and goats and mammoths!” Jon would hear.

 

Jon Snow heard the ring of the supper bell and a cook’s shouts emanating from the center of the castle. _Just a blind guess, he will be serving a dish with riverfish in it._

 

* * *

 

 

Jon spent two years training and squiring without his lords having true need of him.

 

When Ser Brynden Tully rafted down the Red Fork, off to settle some dispute in the Vale, Ser Edmure Tully visibly relaxed. Jon had first found the young Tully to be frosty, but his demeanor towards Jon softened by increments. The absence of his uncle led to Edmure’s significant leap in his treatment of Jon. The heir of Riverrun appeared to be a young man more at ease with japes and kindness than strict adherence to station. Without the need to be mindful of the Blackfish, Edmure took to Jon as if he were family.

 

“Jon Snow, ever so glum. How about some ale and a tale ‘fore retiring for the night?”

 

“I’d be glad for the ale, my lord. As for the tale, what sort of story did you have in mind?”

 

“Oh, I have only the ale,” Edmure announced cheerfully. “I mean to trade a mug of it for _your_ tale.”

 

Jon settled himself opposite Edmure in the empty hall of Riverrun. The servants were meticulous about keeping the torches and candles lit. Even when  only two men sat alone, the entire hall was brightly lit.

 

“My lord, I can think of a few from the North, either from the long history of Winterfell or, perhaps, from beyond the Wall?”

 

The auburn haired knight smiled and shrugged.

 

“Do you know how the Night’s Watch can tell a snow bear from a bear covered in snow?”

 

Before Edmure could respond, the doors of the hall slammed open. Two Tully guards carried a bloody man into the hall and set him on top the nearest table. Even at a distance, he smelled of horse dung and vomit.

 

“Fetch the maester!” shouted Long Lew. One of the six or so men who followed him in ran back out into the yard.

 

“Ser, what happened?” asked Tully.

 

“My lord, this farmer just arrived, raving about outlaws some number of leagues southwest of here. His donkey was nearly dead of exhaustion when he reached the gates. The animal bled from all four hooves and his hide from the farmer’s cane.”

 

The distraught man did not stop his mad ranting even when offered ale from Ser Edmure’s own cup. Jon could not make sense of the words.

 

“From what I can best gather, Ser Edmure, mounted outlaws surrounded his farmhouse. They killed his wife and his good-brother’s children or his children and his brother’s wife; I cannot be sure. This man was returning from the fields when he saw it. He rode to a nearby hamlet for help, only to find it burned. At some point, a fit of madness caught him and he rode here without pause for a day and a half. Full run, by the look of man and mount.”

 

“By the sight of his breeches, I doubt he stopped even to piss,” observed Edmure.

 

The grey-robed Maester Vyman arrived a short while later. He pronounced that the man would live and only needed time to rest.

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Jon found the farmer shivering in the main hall, surrounded by Edmure and the knights in his service. Jon seated himself at the end of the table and watched.

 

Ser Tristan Ryger said, “We must send a raven to the Eyrie. Ser Brynden must receive word of this.”

 

“If he’s even reach there yet, lad. Ser Edmure, what does your father think of this?” asked Ser Desmond Grell.

 

Lord Hoster Tully had been ill since before Jon arrived in Riverrun. Some days, his men would help him descend from his chambers and to the high seat, but more often than not he stayed in his bed or sat on the wide balcony off his solar.

 

“Lannisters,’ he says,” spit Edmure. In Riverrun, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock were said to be at fault for all manner of evil. Whether an oxcart or a miller’s daughter went missing, the principal culprit remained the same.

 

“Their beasts grow restless in peace-time, my lord,” the squat, red-haired Ser Marq Piper added. He was one of the young knights in Edmure’s close circle. “Lord Tywin, no doubt, prefers them to raid Tully lands than his own.”

 

“Take the day to ready our provisions. A lord who cannot protect his people is no lord at all. I will write to my uncle and alert my father. At dawn on the morrow, we ride south!”

 

At first light, thirty knights, twenty mounted men-at-arms, and two-and-twenty squires gathered from Riverrun. Edmure Tully raised a fist in the air when he led the riders across the drawbridge. The castle erupted in shouts and cheers at the sight of the youthful heir riding out to rid the lands of brigands.

 

The injured farmer accompanied them on a Tully garron. He had claimed to have seen thirty men raiding his farm. Edmure insisted that such outlaws rarely numbered more than ten and that the farmer was likely exaggerating the count by at least half.

 

Jon was glad that Ser Brynden had refused him the chance to squire on the road and the river to the Vale. Ser Edmure claimed Jon as a second squire of sorts. Jon wore mail and boiled leather in blue and red. He held the lead of a pack horse, which made his mare anxious. Jon, on the other hand, did not feel even a flicker of nerves. He was eager to see his first battle. With their superior numbers, arms, and skill, Jon did not expect much of a fight when they finally caught their “prey,” as Ser Edmure called the outlaws.

               

The party rode southwest along the River Road. Ser Desmond had advised that they ride further east before turning south, soon after departing Riverrun. He had said that until they knew the raiders’ position, prudence dictated that they choose the more stealthy path. Ser Edmure wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted that he did not intend to ride out only to allow the outlaws to flee to the west.

 

“Swift is wiser than stealth,” he said. Ser Marq and others heartily agreed.

 

Jon was amazed by the green of the Riverlands. He had spent little time beyond lands immediately surrounding the castle. The brightness of the grass and thickets of trees proclaimed a fertility that was not found north of the Neck. Even in summer, the lands near Winterfell were grey by comparison.

 

At midday, they stopped at a small village to water and rest the horses, and to ask for word of the bandits. Jon unsaddled Ser Edmure’s horse while he and some of his knights entered a wooden structure. It might have been an inn or a small barn or simply the house of some commonfolk, Jon did not know. Edmure’s other squire for this sally, Lewys Piper was short and a bit round with a mess of reddish brown hair. His bowed legs were better suited for horseback than running. He brushed the horses of Ser Edmure and both squires. Jon followed some of the other men and returned with two pails of muddy water.

 

“We’ll catch them up soon enough. Do you think Ser Edmure and the knights will hang them or bring them back as prisoners?” Lewys did not wait for Jon’s answer, which was part of his custom when speaking to Jon. Jon Snow was unsure if the other squire meant it as a slight or if that was his natural manner. “He’ll have to keep some of them in chains, if he wishes to prove them Lannister men.”

 

“Lew, I don’t know how Ser Edmure punishes outlaws. In my two-and-some years at Riverrun, I haven’t seen him punish anyone without his lord father or Ser Brynden present. In the North, my father or his bannermen would probably send them to the Night’s Watch. No sense killing a fighting man when his sword could help defend the realm.”

 

“I don’t know which is worse, a hanging or freezing to death atop seven hundred feet of ice. So, you’re Lord Stark’s bastard, then. I had heard a rumor, but didn’t know if to believe it.”

 

“Aye, his bastard,” Jon grumbled. He had trained with the Piper boy for half a year, though the other squire spent more time as a pageboy running about the castle for his knighted brother and Ser Edmure than in the training yard. Jon was surprised by the question all the more, because, after those first months, few had commented on the history of his birth and fewer still within earshot of the ornery Ser Brynden.

 

Ser Edmure and most his knights were pleased by whatever their smallfolk council had yielded. Though, Ser Desmond looked as agitated as ever.

 

The party mounted up, a short while later. Most of the knights had donned their plate before leaving Riverrun, but few had worn their helms. Squires helped knights don any armor they had neglected earlier. Few men spoke and none told Jon of their plans.

 

They left the village and rode westward. Ser Desmond Grell led a small vanguard. Ser Edmure rode at the head of the main party. The squires followed a short distance behind, with Ser Tristan and three men-at-arms guarding the rear of the train. The rocky hills that served as the natural border between the Riverlands and the Westerlands had been within sight for much of the ride, but the band continued west until it was at the base of those hills. Once there, the men turned south.

 

Sunlight streaked through the trees above them as the sun’s distance from the hill line waned. Jon watched for rocky inlets that would serve as suitable night-cover, when the foreriders found cornering hoof tracks. Enough grass was upturned that the knights were adamant that the horses had been galloping and in sufficient number to be the party’s desired prey. Ser Desmond said he could not be sure if the outlaws had been riding north and turned east or if they had been coming from the east and turned south. Most like, some of the riders had doubled back over their tracks to hide their direction.

 

Ser Edmure halved the men. He declared that Ser Desmond would ride east with half the knights, squires, and men-at-arms. Edmure would lead the force following the tracks to the south. Jon noticed that he chose mostly young knights, including Ser Marq and Ser Tristan to ride south with him.

 

As a boy, Jon had learned to track game through the Wolfswood from his father. Following a pack of elk in the snow or mud was easy enough, and they did not disguise their path by treading over their prints more than once. Jon thought that Ser Edmure and the rest were too quick in concluding that the tracks they found belonged to the men for whom they searched. He wondered if they had only found the path of two different trains of commonfolk riding mules and draft horses in opposite directions.

 

Each band rode off as fast as it could along its respective route. Without specific orders, Jon decided he would follow Ser Edmure. After two hours of hard riding, the horses were in a lather. Under the setting sun, none of the men could be certain of the direction of the hoof prints they followed. Edmure would not allow them to stop and inspect. Nonetheless, he seemed convinced that they were on the correct trail and that Ser Desmond’s band was following the decoy.

 

The riders found a shallow stream running down from the wooded hills. The tracks stopped in the water. Edmure told the men to halt and tend to their horses. He sent three scouts upstream and three downstream to find where the trail resumed.

 

As they had half a day earlier, the squires moved about hobbling, unsaddling, and watering the mounts. The sun set before either of the scouting parties had returned. The knights grew restless and ate from their provisions. The men-at-arms and some of the squires sat around a fire throwing dice.

 

One of the outrider’s horns sounded from the hills. The camp was relieved to hear the sound. Whether these scouts had found the tracks or not would tell them to ride upstream or down on the morrow.

 

“You hear them? Bloody fools, riding so hard after dusk. A horse is like to break a leg and its rider’s neck,” Ser Tristan Ryger remarked.

 

“That’s more’n three, ser!” shouted a man-at-arms by the fire.

 

“Swords!” Ser Edmure ordered.

 

Most of the horses remained unsaddled and all were still tied to trees. Rising to their feet, the men drew their weapons. Jon looked about and saw that some in their small party had discarded their armor for the night.

 

Jon drew the longsword on his hip. He heard shrieks all around him. Standing near the fire, he couldn’t see any of the attackers. Jon picked up his bucket, still half full after his mare’s thirst. He upturned it over the flames, not knowing what else to do.

 

In the pale moonlight, Jon saw two horses charging at him. He could not see the riders, but he knew enough to run. He dove behind a tree. A moment later, he looked up to see that one of his pursuers had broken off to bury his sword in someone else. The second had gotten his craggy blade stuck in the tree, inches above Jon’s head.  He hadn’t heard the strike; to Jon, the world around had gone silent. He stepped from behind the tree and stabbed his sword into the man’s horse between its ribs, all the way to the hilt. The blade snagged on bone and Jon released his grip to duck a cut from the rider. The horse gave a kick and then collapsed. Keeping his head down, Jon ran and scanned the ground for another sword. The bodies of dying men, both knights and outlaws, littered the small camp. Jon stumbled over one and fell face first onto the ground. He stole some dead man’s weapon.

 

In an instant, Jon was horrified by the sight in front of him.

 

On the ground, Jon was face to face with more than one dead man, but Edmure Tully was the only corpse that concerned him. He nearly retched at the bloody mess that was once his knight’s face. Jon froze. Madness surrounded him and he had not the first thought on what he should do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending this one on a down note, I know. But, I was happy to see the comments to the last chapter. This story is well on its way to becoming a long one, so if you happen to read this chapter well after I've posted it, I'll still read and appreciate any thoughts you leave.


	7. Brynden - A Letter

* * *

 

Ser Brynden Tully was pleased to step off the riverbarge. He had spent the last six days slowly ambling down the Red Fork. The Blackfish watched as his party: twenty guards, six squires, and their horses; disembarked on village docks, a short ways north of Darry. He paid the boatman the second half of the silver owed and hollered for his men to saddle their horses and tie on their saddlebags.

 

The Blackfish had received a raven from Lord Jon Arryn bidding him to help settle a dispute between the Waynwoods and the Hunters at the request of Lord Nestor Royce, the High Steward of the Vale. Brynden had held the honored post of Knight of the Gate for thirteen years. He resigned the position when he left for Riverrun. At Ser Brynden’s recommendation, the Lord of the Vale named Ser Donnel Waynwood to replace him. Old Lord Hunter’s two younger sons had taken umbrage at not even being considered for the honor. According to Lord Arryn, that neither of the Hunters was, in truth, fit for such a role had apparently eluded them. His raven from King’s Landing said the dispute had already come to blows with the Hunter brothers breaking Ser Donnel’s nose, then bloodying each other. As Hand of the King, Lord Arryn insisted that he could not break away from his duties to arbitrate what he called, “the nonsense of two lads who think themselves men.” _Thus, that pleasant task falls to me_.

 

Surrounded by men pulling horses and boys carrying saddlebags, Brynden Tully saw a young man approach on horseback. The plowman of House Darry was prominently featured across his tunic.

 

“Ser Brynden Tully?” he asked. “I bring a message from your nephew, Ser Edmure, by way of Lord Royce.”

 

He dismounted and the Blackfish led the young man a short distance from the commotion on the docks.

 

“Ser, Lord Raymun Darry received the relayed letter,” said the messenger. “I was told to wait at these docks until I saw the Tully banner or your black trout. A band of brigands raided two towns, mayhaps more by now, and murdered a number of peasants. Valiant Edmure rode out to find them.”

 

Brynden took the unsealed letter from the other man’s hand. It confirmed everything he said. The letter included the barest information on where the raiders were and how they were equipped. Edmure wrote that the one report he received on their numbers was dubious at best. The Blackfish worried that his nephew would charge into a fight without adequate scouting or planning. _The brave fool._

 

“The Hunters’ squabbles will have to wait. I must return at once. When did the raven arrive?”

 

”Only yesterday.”

 

The parchment stated that the razed town was close to Riverrun and that Edmure, “expected to meet the outlaws the following morning or two days at most”. Against the Red Fork’s current, Ser Brynden had little hope of arriving in time to be of any use.

 

Still, Brynden set out in a matter of minutes. He bought passage for himself alone in a narrow skiff with a furled sail and twelve oars. The Blackfish would make far better time in this boat, rather than the barge he'd arrived on. His men, though, would return on the same riverboat they’d just unloaded.

 

Outlaws were rare enough in recent years, but Brynden had never heard of them venturing so close to Riverrun. _Either they are bold and cunning, or utterly stupid._ As the oars churned the water, he thought on the trouble facing the Tullys:

 

_Could this be some trap to lure our men out of Riverrun? Is it by coincidence alone that the attack occurred after I left or was that the brigands’ intent? A plan such as this is one possible mode of killing the heir of Riverrun. But, who would benefit?_

_Could this be an act of Tywin Lannister? Most like, it is not. The man is brutal but not foolish._

_We Tullys have held the Riverlands since Aegon burned Harren the Black. Now more than ever, we have powerful allies. My nieces’ lord husbands and all their bannermen would throw back the full force of the Westerlands. With Jon Arryn as Hand, Lord Tywin would risk the might of the Iron Throne. No, the Lannisters could not be blamed. And such a gamble would be for naught, the lordship would pass to. . ._

_One of Lord Hoster’s grandsons._

_Could the Starks have plotted such a scheme? Might my sweet Catelyn have sent Jon Snow as her catspaw? Has she grown mad?_

_Her sister’s years as Lady Arryn certainly haven’t been kind to Lysa. Seeing her during only the seldom visits she made to the Eyrie was enough to understand how sickeningly attached she’s become to that boy of hers._

_Has Cat likewise formed such a bond to her younger son? She has always been stronger than Lysa, but. . ._

_I refuse to believe it._

 

Ser Brynden tried to sweep such dark thoughts from his mind, but could not think of anyone else who might wish to plot against Edmure Tully. “They may yet prove to be no more than they appear, reckless outlaws,” he reminded himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The skiff drew in its oars and coasted through the lichen-covered Water Gate of Riverrun. As soon as Brynden’s boots touched the damp, stone edge of the landing, he ran to find someone who knew more about the events of the last few days.

 

He saw his brother’s grey-haired, grey-skinned steward hurrying into the main keep. Brynden yelled after the man, but Utherydes Wayn did not hear. He followed into the keep and toward the noise of the second floor meeting hall. The room was swelteringly hot and Brynden could see it had been turned into a disheveled infirmary. He saw Ser Robin Ryger restraining a soldier while the Maester Vyman changed bandages and poured boiled wine on a young man’s forearm. The captain of the guard rose to his feet at the sight of the Blackfish.

 

“Ser Robin, what in the name of the Seven happened?! Where is Edmure?”

 

“Best we speak in private,” Ryger said.

He and Brynden left the room and walked down the corridor and halfway up the stairs to the next landing. He sat straight down on the sandstone steps and bid the old knight to do the same. The echoes of the shouts from the meeting hall could still be heard.

 

Ser Robin told him about how Edmure led the hunt and had divided the men. “I was with Ser Desmond’s party when two of Lord Edmure’s men, they and their horses covered in dried blood, caught up with us.

 

“Ser Edmure had sent these men and one other to scout along a stream. Finding no tracks, they returned to camp late that night. The skirmish was already lost. Our men and outlaws laid dead in the mud. The scouts had to flee the remaining outlaws, and lost one more man in the escape.

 

“I am sorry, ser,” Ryger hesitated. “They say of Edmure’s party . . . none but those two survived.”

 

The old captain dipped his chin and rubbed his bald head.

 

“No. That cannot be true. What of the campsite? And. . . Then who are the men being tended? Surely they didn’t stab themselves while trying to cut their meat at a funeral supper!”

 

“Those are men from Ser Desmond’s band. The sun was up before the pair of scouts found us. We tracked the outlaws to a thatched shelter in the hills. Did for every one of them. Even found three o’ ours . . . dead and tortured.”

 

Brynden’s face paled. Even on the Trident, his thoughts of Edmure’s death were only worries. Yet, he knew the ways of rogue riders. They would not leave any alive to point a finger. _A man facing the hangman is not like to hesitate in finishing a bloodied foe._

 

“After all was done, I inspected the site myself, ser. None of ours escaped. The only tracks we found were either from Edmure’s scouts or led into the hills and the bandits’ camp. All of the men, knights, and –Are you certain you wish to hear this? You’ll find no comfort in my words.”

 

The Blackfish nodded and Robin continued. “These _. . ._ brigands,” he spat, “scum that they were, stripped every man of weapons and armor before throwing them face-first into a pyre. The vicious cunts.”

 

That was not the first time Brynden had heard of the tactic.

 

“That is what such men do. It is an agreement among them, of sorts. If an outlaw corpse is recognized, someone may take revenge on his kin. Burning the face off their dead prevents that. But to disfigure _our dead_? That could be for naught but their amusement.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lord Hoster Tully was despondent. He left his quarters seldom enough before his son’s death to worry the Blackfish. After it, he outright refused. When Brynden sat with him, his words made little sense. Every statement seemed strung together from five and more unrelated thoughts. Yet still, through grief, sickness, and this madness, Hoster was able to convey his anger at his brother for not marrying that Redwyne girl a lifetime ago. It was the only utterance Brynden could make sense of.

 

“Perhaps you are right about a marriage, my lord. If my fears are true, we cannot let Riverrun fall to the next in line.”

 

Lord Tully made no sign of understanding his younger brother’s words.

 

“A son of mine would carry the Tully name. That may be enough to hold the castle, even if the king’s law does hold that a lord’s daughter comes before his nephew.”

                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Danielle, Imperial, Seth, quiet, Narea, mar and everyone else reading this. More to come!


	8. Jon - A Flight

* * *

 

“Kahh-togh,” Jon heard as Edmure coughed up a mouthful of blood. _He lives._

 

“I’ll return, my lord!”

 

On instinct alone, Jon sprinted for the horses. He grinned like a fool when he saw that the three he’d hobbled remained unharmed. _Too valuable to slaughter_. He reached for the bridal of Edmure’s courser. The strongest of the three, he retreated from Jon’s touch, trying to pull free of his lead. Having no time to settle a frantic horse, he circled around to his mare.

 

“Easy, girl,” Jon beckoned. He touched her neck and she seemed to know just what he needed. The horse stepped closer, giving Jon enough slack to untie her. Rather than flee as the other horse would have, his mare followed Jon. With the reins in hand, Jon ran her to a bloody Edmure.

 

“Squire! To me!”

 

Jon turned to see five of his fellows, rank and title no longer important, next to the ashes of the firepit. They had formed a circle, each man facing out and ready for the attackers. Four of them had swords and the fifth only a dirk, but all five blades were covered in dark blood.

 

Jon shook his head and didn’t look back. He gave the bridal a tug and his mare complied, going to her knees. Jon slung Edmure across her bare back and held him steady as she rose to her feet, awkward from the weight. Jon vaulted up on the horse’s bare back. He gripped his mare’s mane and the back of Edmure’s soaked surcoat. He held tight with his knees and thighs as best he could.

 

Without instruction, the horse broke into a sprint. _Away from the camp, girl. Just away_.

 

Jon heard a man shout when he passed. Jon didn’t turn back. He knew that if the outlaws followed him, he could not outrun them for long and he surely couldn’t fight them off. “To the hills and the trees,” Jon said to himself. Like a fox or a squirrel caught out in the open, the cover of rocks and trees felt safe to Jon. He pulled the mare’s mane and his shifted his weight forward, and she continued straight for the hills. When they reached the trees, Jon looked back; he didn’t see or hear any of the bandits giving chase. Wagering that the outlaws had attacked the Tully men with their full strength and left no men at the tree line, Jon steered his mare into the stream and up into the hills.

 

The stream bed provided sure enough footing for the horse to walk, even with the weight of two men on her back. They would make better time on solid ground, but in the absence of a road or trail, the stream was the only unimpeded route. In the darkness, Jon rode until the stream met the narrow waterfall which fed it. He stopped briefly to let his mare drink. He hauled Ser Edmure off of the horse and set him down on the water’s edge. Jon ripped a length of cloth from Edmure’s tunic and used it to wash the blood from his face.

 

“My lord, can you hear me?”

 

“What. . . what has happened? Who are . . . you?”

 

“Jon Snow, ser. Your squire. Drink, and gather your strength. We’ve not seen the end of tonight’s ride.”

 

“I. . . I thought that I was dead. Killed in. . . that. Ambush, I mean. Snow. . . if you get me back to Riverrun with my life, by the Seven I’ll have you knighted.”

 

Jon laughed softly at that. “You’re out of sorts. I'm only four-and-ten, and besides the bandits may yet track us. The sight of Riverrun alone will be reward enough. .  . that, and perhaps an entire cask of ale.”

 

Edmure’s laugh turned into yet another bloody cough.

 

“Thank the gods,” Jon whispered. He saw an old hunter’s path near the stream. Though barely wide enough for a single horse, it looked well travelled.

 

Laying across the horse had done Edmure’s wounds no favors; he might have even cracked a rib or two during their flight from the camp. He was too weak to ride pillion under his own strength, so Jon used a scrap of tunic cloth to bind Edmure’s hands. He seated Edmure behind him and looped his knight’s arms over one shoulder and across his chest. They rode slowly through the winding, unfamiliar path.

 

Before long, Jon realized why the trail looked well worn. Not far from the waterfall, the trail branched out to the right. Jon could smell the smoke of a campfire, though he couldn’t see anyone.

 

“Their encampment,” Jon said to his mare and the unconscious knight.

 

_The upstream scouting party may yet live._

 

Jon thought better than to chance a closer look. He did not veer toward the smoke. Jon told himself that his duty was to Ser Edmure’s safety. He wondered, though, if cowardice was his guide, rather than duty. At a slow, yet steady pace they continued through the night.

 

* * *

 

Sunrise came as a relief. It meant that Jon and Edmure had survived the night and they could more easily set their baring.

 

“Edmure, wake up,” Jon said shaking the arms around his chest.  

 

He heard only a moan in response.

 

“Ser Edmure, we need to get you to a maester, or an innkeep at the least. I don’t know these lands. Would it be best to continue westward or perhaps to turn north? Where is the nearest castle or town?”

 

“No. . .”

 

“My lord?”

 

“No castles. No towns. . . the hills, Lannister lands. I’ll not . . . not be taken hostage.”

 

Jon shook his head in frustration. “Ser, you are the heir to Riverrun. Surely the Lannisters would not dare harm you. They’ll see you returned safely-”

 

“No! They sent the brig. . . brigands. _Lannister_ men. You are a squire. I am . . . Edmure. . . your knight!”

 

Jon was wary of listening to the orders of a severely wounded man, but he would not fail in his duty. _Besides, I know little of the paramount house in the West_ , he reminded himself. _Might be they are as vile as the Tullys make them out to be._ Jon would not take that chance and he would not disobey Ser Edmure.

 

“Remember. . . Jon Snow. . . knighting.”

 

Edmure Tully drifted in and out of sleep. Jon could feel the cold sweat soak through his jerkin at the shoulder.

 

“East is back to the outlaws. West and South are away from Riverrun. When we left the castle, we rode southwest for most of a day. At our pace through the hills, a day of riding north then a day to the east should bring us close enough.”

 

Neither Edmure nor the mare replied.

 

“Oh, but the night,” Jon corrected himself. “A plodding night’s ride west means an extra half day eastward.”

 

Doing his best to gauge his bearing, Jon shielded his eyes and looked up at the sun streaking through the trees. The trail led further west, with no signs that it would turn north or even cross a northward trail.

 

Without a path, Jon would need to lead the horse by the reins through the trees. He unbound Edmure’s arms, dismounted, and then re-tied them around the mare’s neck.

 

As they made way, he thought about the Wolfswood beyond Winterfell. “Steady, girl. This ground is far more rocky, which makes for room between the trunks and branches. But, if you or I break an ankle who knows if we’ll ever find our way out.”

 

The mare gave a snort and they continued on.

               

They trekked north all day and made camp at night fall. Jon found no where to comfortably lay Ser Edmure. He feared for the man’s health. Edmure had spent few hours awake since they set out the previous night. Jon sat against a tree to stand guard.

 

In the dark, Jon smiled as he recalled leaving Winterfell:

 

* * *

 

Dozens of faces had watched as he said his goodbyes; most of whom gave Jon a smile, a nod, or a scowl. Even in his last moments truly living in Winterfell, Jon was still Lord Eddard’s bastard. The mix of scorn and respect was to be expected. The few that Jon loved gave him a send off that any son or brother would be proud of.

 

That day, the sun was hidden behind cloud cover and a wind from the east made the morning colder any other that month.

 

Bran, as eager and impatient as ever, was the first to say his farewell. He had begged his mother for permission to accompany Jon to Riverrun. In Bran’s mind, his brother was off to tilt with the Dragonknight or to follow Barristan the Bold against the Ninepenny Kings.

 

“Jon, I’m sorry of what I said at dinner,” Bran said.

 

During the night before Jon was to depart, Bran had made a final, exasperated effort to convince his parents to allow him to squire alongside his older brother. When Lady Catelyn said her final word on the matter, Bran declared that he had more of a right to go than even Jon did, since Jon was only a Stark bastard and not even half Tully. Ashamed at his outburst, Bran made no further pleas.

 

“I’ll miss you is all, and I want to be a knight too. I could even be your squire! When you get to Riverrun, ask Uncle Blackfish if you can have a squire. You’ll choose me if you can have one -a squire- won’t you? I’ll be brave and ride beside you, I swear it.”

 

Jon bent down and told his little brother that he did not think that he would be allowed a squire until he was a knight himself, which would not be for many years. But Jon promised the sprite of a boy that the position was his and that Jon could never chose another to replace him.

 

Sansa had been the next to say goodbye. She gave her half-brother a curtsey. _More polished than any other Northern girl her age._ Sansa bid Jon a safe journey and the Warrior’s guidance for his training. When she moved to turn back to her family, Jon stepped forward and embraced her. His lady sister was ever courteous before the eyes of the castle, but Jon was having none of it. Foremost, this was _his_ farewell. If he felt so inclined, he would embarrass his proper sister. Jon had never felt bold in front of so many onlookers. Showing a blush of his own, he withdrew from Sansa and only then offered her a formal bow.

 

Arya’s eyes followed her sister’s face before turning to Jon. She gave him a wolfish grin, clearly pleased by Sansa’s abraded expression. Arya ran at her brother and leapt to him with as much momentum as she could muster. Jon caught her in his arms and held her tight. Her feet dangled a foot from the ground and she gave Jon’s knee a kick.

 

“Are you sure you want to go?” she whispered. “It’s not too late, you can turn back, go against your choice. Mother can write to Riverrun. . . maybe you could stay. . .”

 

Arya held tighter. He felt her warm tears on his skin.

 

“I will miss you more than I could say, little sister. I will write to you every month and I’ll watch for your letters. Will you write to me?” Jon felt her nod. “I won’t be here, but I will always be your brother. Might be that in a year your mother will want you to see where she spent her girlhood years, to see your grandfather. Also, when the time comes, I’ll return to the North. This isn’t forever, little sister.”

 

Arya smiled and loosened her grip enough to lean her head back and look Jon in the eye, “She wrote to me again. _Our friend_ , you know. . . her. She sent a raven. . .”

 

Jon gave her a look of mock confusion, as if he did not have the slightest inkling to whom she referred.

 

“Well, if you don’t even remember her, then I ‘spose that I should just keep the part she wrote to you. . .”

 

Jon let out a boyish chuckle and Arya tucked a tightly wound scroll into the collar of his leather jerkin. Jon set her on her feet. She looked up at him with watery eyes and gave him the faintest of whispers, “I’ll miss you.”

 

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat and walked towards the horses. Robb and their father were waiting for him. Robb gave his brother a fierce hug.

 

“Take care of the little ones, Stark.”

 

“Show those Riverlanders how we fight in the North, Snow,” Robb said with a snort. “The next time I see you, I’ll be calling you something else. Have you settled on one yet?”

 

Jon looked at his feet and then shook his head.

 

“You could take the name ‘Sleet. ’ As in, not quite snow. Or if you wanted to honor Riverrun, you could be Jon Ice-Fishing. Or-”

 

“That’s quite enough, Robb,” Ned said. “Jon has five, or perhaps eight years, to chose. Though I suppose he won’t need more than four to best those two ideas.”

 

Jon responded with a “har, har.”

 

“I believe you will do well for yourself, Jon. I am certain you will make us all proud. Mind your uncl- mind Ser Brynden and the castle’s master-at-arms. In truth, I cannot be sure of the welcome that you will receive, so perform the duties they require and be patient. Robb and I will find a forest holdfast fit for a knight,” Ned said with a wide smile. “As long as you don’t win a tourney when you first arrive, we’ll ready the holdfast well before you return.” Jon felt his father pull him into a strong embrace and gave him a rough clap on his back.

 

Jon mounted his black mare and gave one final look about the castle. His glance met Lady Stark across the courtyard. He paused before mouthing, “Thank you,” to her. She shut tight her eyes and tucked her chin to her chest. Jon supposed that the movement was a crude nod, and as warm a fare-thee-well as he could expect from the woman. Any past animosity mattered not. Jon was off on a great adventure. A nobler journey than he might have ever allowed himself to dream of. He would miss his home, his family. Rickon would never remember that Jon had ever lived within the same walls. Jon knew that he would have years to let his youngest brother know him. All the better that he would do so as a knight rather than a nameless bastard.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Jon awoke realizing that he had fallen asleep, most like only a short while from when he began his watch. The mare looked to be in better spirits after a full night’s rest. Edmure was quite the opposite.

 

After a night and a day of travel, Jon had yet to examine Edmure’s wounds. He pulled the blue and red tunic over his knight’s head. He needed to sit Edmure against a tree to unfasten his armor. After removing the plate and mail, and then the leather beneath, Jon saw the bloody mess. Edmure only moaned as Jon turned him as gently as he could. The reason for the bloody coughs was apparent. Ser Edmure’s entire left side bore a bruise so dark, it looked nearly black. By comparison, the scabbed slash across his chest looked mild. With his hand, Jon traced the bones on Edmure’s torso and learned that his assumption of cracked ribs was correct. Two were broken for certain, and three more were definitely tender and quite possibly cracked as well.

 

“Gods, what am I to do with you? Blood looks to be pooling around those ribs. Do I make a small cut and let it drain out? Or do I want to keep in any blood you have left?” Jon was startled when he saw Edmure open his eyes. “Ser?”

 

“Take me to an inn or toss. . . toss me to the foot of a . . . castle gate. The Others can take those bloody lions. . . heh, I suppose. . . you might style me the _Redfish_ now. They can have. . . their ransom. Let them take me prisoner, so long as . . . milk of the poppy.”

 

_Would that I could, the sun has set for good on that choice._

 

“We are a day from that westward trail. I wouldn’t know where to find an inn or a castle, my lord.”

 

“Then. . . what, Jon Snow?”

 

“Our pace yesterday was slower than I’d hoped. I fear we have another half a day’s hike north, then two, mayhaps, three days east. But. . . we have no food. I have no bow to hunt even if we happen upon some game. At least we’re lost in the hills of the Westerlands and not the mountains of Dorne; we have no want of moving water. Ser, if we move quickly, we can reach Riverrun on the third day.”

 

“So be it, what . . . good is being the son of a lord, when. . . when you’re lost in the wood?”

 

Jon was glad to see him smile, but loath to watch blood accompany his laugh.

 

The ragged party set out to the north. It was still morning when Jon found a bush with half a hand of berries. He gave them to Edmure, only to see them retched back up a few minutes later. Jon chewed on some leaves, hoping to fool his aching stomach.

 

At midday, Jon found their first glimmer of hope. “Ser,”  Jon said shaking Edmure. “There! That rushing water, is it just another stream of is it the beginnings of the Tumblestone?”

 

Ser Edmure let out a wordless moan.

 

Jon decided to follow the water more out of weary hope than any rational appraisal. The descent was more treacherous than the previous day’s trek had been. Along a cliff, Ser Edmure’s limp body slid from the mare’s back and almost took the horse over the side. Fortunately, the surefooted beast kept her balance and dragged Edmure until Jon found room to maneuver. With the young knight secured more tightly than before, they reached smoother terrain by night fall.

 

Soiled and exhausted, the pair and their horse followed the river the next morning. Jon led the horse and the _cargo_ down the last of the hills. In the distance, Jon saw a boy standing on a small poleboat. He waved at the lad, no older than Bran, who turned down river without so much as a nod. Two miles further, four men met Jon with pitchforks and wooden spears.

 

“Good men, we’re not from any band of outlaws-”

 

“Then, who are ye? What’s yer business?” one of them interrupted.

 

“Seeing the wounded heir of Riverrun back home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM owns everything of Ice and Fire. Fun not Profit. Winter_Wolf is awesome. So are comments.


	9. Brynden - Returning

* * *

 

“Ser! Blac- Ser Brynden, come quick!” shouted a frantic man-at-arms. The weathered knight ignored the man’s tone and ran after him.

 

They both bounded up the switch-back steps to the top of Riverrun’s sandstone wall overlooking the dry entrance to the castle. He could discern figures walking toward the gate, but had to raise his hand to shield the sun before he could see them fully.

 

Two men carried a third with an arm across each of their shoulders. They were treading carefully on the muddy path connecting the castle to the smallfolk docks, just outside the walls. A barefoot boy followed them using an oar as a walking stick and leading a jet-black horse.

 

“Ser! Don’t you see?”

The Blackfish thought to himself, _Already, enough poor to fill a village have come seeking a healer, protection, or justice for their dead kin; would that we could help all of them. Four more are not likely to improve matters_.

 

The guards jerked up the iron portcullis. Men and boys swarmed around the bloody invalid. Some took the man away from the pair who carried him.

 

Brynden descended the stairs and heard the raucous shouts.

 

“Edmure?!”

 

The crowd parted to make way for the Blackfish. He clutched the filthy man on either side of his head. Turning the marred face to his, Brynden saw a half grin.

 

“Please, ser. We mus’ take him to Maester Vyman,” one of the men said.

 

Brynden nodded and released his nephew. He turned to look for the two who’d carried Edmure. He heard cursing and saw the crowd shoving the youngest of the pair. Before the Blackfish could intervene, he realized that the men were grabbing at the escort in a _joyous_ tussle. The shouts were not of anger, but of euphoric disbelief.

 

He shouted through the fray, “Bring him here! I’ll see the man who returned my nephew from the dead!”

 

The men gave the disheveled savior one last shove towards the Blackfish. The young man stopped in front of him.

 

“Your squire, ser. Jon Snow. Ser Edmure will need tending to, but he survived the ambush and our flight through the hills.”

 

He laughed to himself. _Jon Snow, the bastard squire from the North_.

 

* * *

 

“Uncle?”

 

Ser Brynden stepped beside the bed. He put a firm hand on Edmure’s shoulder when the younger Tully tried to raise himself to his elbows. Edmure slumped back down.

 

“You’ve been sleeping fitfully going six days and counting. Drinking heavily of the milk of the poppy and waking for few hours these last days. The maester drained the swelling on your side, but he thinks you should not move, lest you do any further harm.”

“I suppose I look a right awful mess.” Edmure’s voice sounded weak and nasal.

 

In addition to his ribs, Edmure’s nose was severely broken. During the poppy induced slumber, Maester Vyman had padded a wooden mallet with cloth and hammered the nose back toward the center of Edmure Tully’s face, granting him some hope of breathing through it again. Thin scrapes and slashes littered his chest and arms. Those had closed on their own, needing only a poultice.

 

“Rest. In a few hours, I will bring your father, after the maester has a chance to check your wounds.”

 

When he returned, Brynden saw Edmure’s appearance had improved considerably. He suspected that making the _son_ look presentable was more for the _father’s_ wellbeing.

 

After the Blackfish first told Lord Hoster of his son’s return, the old man had cried for hours. Since seeing Edmure alive, he slowly shifted back to who he had been before his son’s false death. He still seemed exceptionally tired, but he regained his coherency.

 

“Oh, my son. . .”

 

Brynden had to restrain his brother from embracing Edmure. A hug would not aid battered ribs.

 

“Father, I’m . . . better,” Edmure offered. “Alive, but I fear less pretty than when last you saw me,” he said with a tentative chuckle.

 

Edmure Tully did his best to tell his father of the battle. Brynden added the details he had heard from the men and told Edmure of Ser Desmond Grell’s chase and slaying of the outlaws.

 

His memory of the journey home was inconsistent. Some events he retold vividly, but other parts were lost to him. What he did remember well, Ser Brynden noted, did not differ from Jon Snow’s tale. After Edmure finished, Brynden added what the brown-haired squire had said, some of which turned Edmure’s memory and he confirmed.

 

Hoster Tully looked torn between the urges to vehemently chastise his son and to fall on his knees and thank the Mother for her mercy.

 

“Nephew, when I thought you’d died, I had wondered about Snow’s loyalty, his intentions.”

 

The sound that burst from deep in Edmure’s chest was half laugh and half yelp of pain.

 

“Jon Snow? You suspected _Jon Snow the Somber Squire_ in some. .  . murderous treachery?” Edmure suppressed his laugh and let out only a ragged breath. “Uncle, you know what they say of Starks.”

 

“A Stark bastard,” Brynden corrected. “And you know what they say of children born on the wrong side of the sheet.”

 

“Take of -hmph!- . . . take of that what you will. The serious boy and that clever horse of his saved me from a silent raft down the Trident. He pulled me from that bloody fray, kept me from Lannister claws, and led me through those Western hills. I am not sure he even ate for all the days it took.”

 

Brynden turned to Hoster. “We should find some suitable reward for the lad.”

 

Lord Tully nodded, marking the first memorable agreement between them in quite some time.

 

“A knighthood and a cask of ale.”

 

“What?” Ser Brynden and Lord Hoster said in unison and then exchanged glances.

 

“A suitable reward,” answered Edmure. “A knighthood and a cask of ale.”

 

“Edmure, we shall find something more fitting,” said the Blackfish.

 

“The boy is . . . what, four-and-ten? . . . And still a boy,” declared the lord, suddenly incredulous. “A knighting reflects upon the knight and his lord’s House. I’ll not have one of mine anoint a . .  .some green boy and reflect poorly on Riverrun.”

 

“More poorly than a lord’s heir breaking his word? Yes, father. I made him a promise in the woods, I remember that much.”

 

Lord Hoster still looked at his son grimly.

 

“Brother, my lord. Can you think of when we last had a tale such as this in our family? The story of the actions of that squire will be told and re-told a hundredfold within a fortnight. By next year, he’ll have carried Edmure on his back and slayed a pack of lions.

 

“Raising him to a knight was always expected. In Cat’s request that I return to Riverrun, perhaps she hoped that her father and her uncle would reconcile after these long years, but sweet Catelyn wanted me to take the boy to squire. Off her hands as well, I suppose, but to squire until he earned a _knighthood_. Now does not seem so ill a time to do it, nor undeserved.”

 

Lord Hoster turned in his seat to look out the window and grasped his grey beard. Brynden did not know if he was seeing the sense in what he’d heard or if he was steeling himself to argue further.

 

After another moment, Hoster simply shrugged and waved Brynden away so he could sit alone with his son.

 

 


	10. Jon & Arya - A Knighting

* * *

 

Jon was in the stables brushing his mare when Ser Brynden found him.

 

“You’re a brave lad and a diligent squire,” the weathered knight said with a firm expression but a hint of a smile in his eyes. “You’re sharp when wielding a sword, with time and practice you could one day be better than most knights. You ride well, though you are barely passable with a lance under your arm.” With that, a wry grin escaped his composure.

 

“When I first heard of Edmure’s sally against the outlaws, I let my worry drown my opinion of you. After your years as my squire, I should have known better,” he admitted. “I sent ravens to Winterfell, the first of which was a mercifully incorrect notice of your death. The second, I just came from sending. It told them of your deeds in my . . . _brave?_ . . . nephew’s ill-planned pursuit. Maester Vyman said that you sent a raven to your family upon your return with Edmure.”

 

“Aye, ser,” answered Jon. “But, the maester insisted upon reading it first. . .”

 

“Again, my apologies for my mistrust. To continue, my letter told them of your knighthood, in case any should wish to witness it. We’ll plan for me to dub you when we receive word back.”

 

“ _You?_ Ser Brynden? You mean to knight me? And to do it _yourself?_ ”

 

“Surely even in the North, Ser Brynden the Blackfish of House Tully is an honorable name?” he jested.

 

“No, ser! That is to say, yes. It _is_ an honorable name, Ser Brynden.”

 

The Blackfish laughed and assured Jon that he would be pleased to do it.

 

“Ser, about the knighting. I am aware of the ceremony and what knights do. But, I keep the old gods. When the time comes, would you allow me to sit my vigil and then to do the kneeling all in the godswood, not the sept?”

 

The Blackfish chuckled. “A man spends his vigil in naught but his small clothes. Sure that you won’t fall ill from the chill?”

 

Next was Jon’s turn to laugh.

 

“Ser, we’re in the Riverlands and it is still summer,” he said, as if no further explanation was necessary. Still he japed, “In two years, I’ve never lit the brazier in my cell or closed the port-hole window. I’m a Northman.” Jon won a smile in return.

 

“In recent years, many knights choose not to sit a vigil at all. Others are knighted on the battlefield without any ceremony. The vigil and the knighting can both be in the godswood, just choose two separate spots and be sure to walk barefoot between them.” Ser Brynden also insisted on a septon anointing Jon with the seven oils, saying it was only proper.

 

Ser Brynden moved to leave through the wide, stable doors, when he stopped. Jon was elated by the prospect of being knighted by no less a knight than the _Blackfish_ , and by the praise he’d received. When he saw Brynden turn and walk back, Jon feared that the famed knight had thought better of everything he’d just said.

 

“Jon, these came for you last night. I am embarrassed to confess that I read them.”

 

Brynden, for the first time in Jon’s presence, looked sheepish.

 

He handed Jon two, folded squares of parchment. “It seems your half-siblings are quite fond of you and . . . best of luck with that Northern girl of yours.”

 

* * *

 

_Jon,_

_For days we thought you were dead. Killed by outlaws. Do not ever do that to us again. Everyone cried til they thought their eyes would fall out. Even father and Robb._

_I am so happy that you are not dead, Arya._

* * *

_Jon,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I experienced one remarkably dark day followed by the brightest of nights._

_One morning, I received Arya’s letter telling me of your death. Shortly after evenfall of the next day, her raven arrived stating that you had returned to Riverrun, alive. The sadness of the first was almost worth enduring for the joy of the second. Almost. Please send a raven to your sister soon. I will be glad to hold proof that you still live, in my hands._

_Quite relieved,_

_Lydrea Hornwood_

 

* * *

 

Maester Vyman had been uncommonly kind to Jon. For two years, he sent Jon’s letters to Winterfell every month. He also kept private every message returned, before he had shown these two to Ser Brynden.

 

Robb wrote every month, on his training, gossip from the castle, and questions about Riverrun and the Tullys. Every few letters of his were accompanied by one from Bran. Though they both denied it, Jon was certain that his younger brother only wrote to him when ordered to by their older brother.

 

Arya was less reliable in sending ravens, but most of hers were rolled together with ones Lydrea had written to Jon. To keep up propriety and because Maester Vyman had no ravens trained for Castle Hornwood, Arya served as a way-stop of sorts.

 

At first, he’d thought Lydrea’s letters icy, based on their formal tone. Slowly, he realized that that was simply how she was. Once he understood that, Jon began to grasp the dry japes and warmth within her words. It felt entirely natural to divulge thoughts that he would never have said aloud. As someone who rarely sought a bond with anyone outside his family, Jon felt that, except for them, mayhaps no one knew him better than Lydrea.

 

* * *

 

Jon was surprised that Robb had not traveled to Riverrun alone, as his father’s letter stated. Ned Stark wrote that he’d received a raven from King’s Landing and could not leave Winterfell, but had offered kind words regarding his pride in Jon, who rolled the letter in cloth and tucked it away. Eddard said that Robb would arrive in his stead. Jon expected an escort, but watching from atop one of the castle’s three gates, he saw Arya and Lady Stark as well.

 

He ran down to greet them. Ser Rodrik and Hullen were the first to dismount. Winterfell’s master-of-horse gave Jon a playful shove before helping Lady Catelyn from her chestnut rouncey.

 

Rodrik Cassel clasped Jon on the shoulder and said, “Well done, boy. We’ve all heard the tale and mayhaps later you’ll give me the bloody details over some Southron wine.”

 

Jon smiled and thanked the man who had first trained him to use a sword. Still, he couldn’t help himself from looking up at the guard post on the castle wall. _Lew Piper will never live to have a day such as this._ Jon’s eyes found Robb assisting Arya. _His brother Marq did not return either_. Jon pushed aside his feelings, grief tinged with guilt, and smiled at his brother and sister.

 

Jon embraced Robb and said, “Glad to see you brother, though I had not expected that you would bring along some vagrant you found on the road. Girl, Riverrun quarters no beggars. Off with you!”

 

Arya gave him a punch in his stomach.

 

“You should have heard her, Jon,” Robb said. “From dawn to dusk, she pestered father about coming. His resolve melted sooner than you’d guess.”

 

“And, can _I_ tell him?” she asked. “I’ve already had to wait so, so long and I didn’t even put it in my letter.”

 

Robb told Arya that she could and Jon doubted that she would have held back even if Robb hadn’t. She waved over a maid with a woven basket, the type that farmers used in the fields, slung over her back. She knelt next to Arya, who opened it and gently pushed aside furs. Jon thought that she might be looking for a cloak for him, until she stepped forward with a furry, white bundle.

 

The pup looked up at Jon with sleepy, red eyes. It yawned silently. Jon took the white pup and lifted him from under his fore legs.

 

“He’s a direwolf,” whispered Arya. She reached back into the basket and pulled two more pups out by the scruff of their necks. “Robb and Bran found them.”

 

“They were newly born,” began Robb. “Their mother dead by a stag’s antler. I found five. Bran was already deciding which pup would go to which of us when father said we could not keep them. A tear from Bran and a promise from me changed his mind. We were leaving with them when Bran heard a noise. Lucky that he did, because no one else heard it. He picked up that one and without a flicker of hesitation declared it yours.”

 

Jon held up the direwolf pup and the creature stared right back, as if sizing Jon up.

 

“His name is Ghost!”

 

“Shh, Arya,” Robb said cutting her off. “Jon will choose the name. He’s white and never makes a sound, so that’s why I thought of the name.”

 

“Well, I like it and Bran likes it too,” said Arya. She set the other two wolves down. They walked to Jon and sniffed his boots. “Bran hasn’t thought of a name for his yet.”

 

“I call mine, Grey Wind. Even now I know he’ll be fast. Sansa chose Lady, which suits her I suppose. Arya named that one, Nymeria, after the Rhoynish queen who conquered Dorne. Mother was _thrilled._ Rickon won’t stop calling his Shaggydog, no matter how stupid that name is.”

 

Lady Catelyn stepped beside Robb. Jon had not expected her either. Seeing this woman, Jon did not know what greeting to expect.

 

“Lady Stark,” he said with a polite bow.

 

Her expression looked guarded, but tender. As a child he had seen the look on occasion, though never directed at him. She shortened the space between them and gave his hand a brief squeeze.

 

“Thank you for Edmure.”

 

“He seems himself again, my lady,” Jon said. “Though, he isn’t moving about on his own yet. If you wish to see him, he will be in his room, or, if not, he may have been helped to your lord father’s solar.”

 

As Catelyn walked away, it occurred to Jon that he might be far more familiar with Edmure than she was. Fourteen years had passed since she left for Winterfell, and Jon did not remember how long ago her last visit was. Edmure certainly had never visited Winterfell. Four-and-ten years ago, her brother had been only a boy of eleven.

 

Arya pulled him from his thoughts by his sleeve.

 

“Show me the castle.”

 

* * *

 

With his wolf pup at his heels, Jon left the barracks and started toward the godswood. Edmure had offered him better quarters after his rescue, though Jon politely refused, insisting that he was still a squire and that his cell in the barracks was fine enough.

 

As he walked passed, Jon saw Robb waiting by the entrance to the main keep.

 

“In need of some diversion, Stark?” he asked.

 

“That leads precisely to my question, Jon. I am standing here incapable of thinking up a proper name for you. Here you are, going to such lengths to _earn_ a name and your brother cannot even think of one to give you.” Robb held his chin and pretended to be lost in thought.

 

As Jon stepped closer, Robb looked like a living shadow; the light from the doorway of the keep silhouetted him, against the darkness of the courtyard.

 

“Oh, but you have,” he said. “You shall see on the morrow.”

 

Just then, Arya came striding up to them. In her arms, she held a pile of furs so large that she could barely see where she walked. The two grey pups tried to nip at a corner hanging free.

 

“And what, my lady, is all this?” Jon asked.

 

“I am going to make camp in the godswood tonight. With you, of course.”

 

“Firstly, I have to be alone, so you cannot come. Second, I’ll be remaining awake all night _in my small clothes_ , which would be odd with my little sister. So, again, you cannot come. Third, a lady doesn’t sleep on the ground when she has well-arranged quarters in her grandfather’s castle. Arya, you’re a lady, not a hedge knight. Besides, your mother would be furious and blame me.”

 

“What are you afraid of?” interrupted Robb. “Surely, carrying her brother while fending off a pride of lions, slaying a dragon, and throwing back the Others is worth _some_ leniency. I have heard that you did each of those feats in at least one wine-soaked tale.”

 

“And you just stay in your breeches," added Arya. "What does how you cover _your butt_ tonight have to do with being a knight anyhow?”

 

Jon let her follow him into the middle of the godswood. He led Arya to a quietly trickling stream. She laid out the furs on the grass. Jon removed all but his breeches and sat himself against a mossy rock. He worried that their wolves might run off into the darkness, but Nymeria curled herself into Arya’s embrace and Jon’s pup sat on his hind legs beside him.

 

“Tell me what it was like, the battle. Did you really kill anyone?”

 

“It was over so quickly. That’s what I remember most, the pace of it. In Old Nan’s stories, battles rage and ebb for hours, even days. At the campsite? It felt no longer than it takes to trip over your feet. One moment I am ducking a sword, a breath later I found your uncle, and a breath after that we were fleeing into the hills.”

 

Arya yawned before releasing a deep breath, “Sounds exciting.”

 

“No, not exciting, little sister,” he whispered. “Quick as it was, I hope you never have to see anything like it.”

 

Arya said no more. Jon could hear her breath slow. He looked down to see that Ghost was resting his head on Jon’s hip, but in the moonlight his eyes could still be seen. Jon placed a hand on his back.

 

“I ran when I could have fought, Ghost. Might be I could have helped those five by the fire pit. They might have lived. I never wanted them to die, I had no time, and the outlaws were too many. Am I a craven?

 

“Craven or not, they’re calling me a hero for saving one and leaving five, perhaps more, to be killed.”

 

Jon petted his wolf’s fur until his red eyes closed. He rested his head against the rock, watching the stars through the canopy and thought of home until dawn.

 

* * *

* * *

          

Arya awoke to Nymeria licking her face.

 

“Enough, I’m awake.”

 

She looked up and saw that Jon hadn’t moved from his bolder. Half the sky glowed orange, like the burning embers at the bottom of a dying fire. The rising sun cast its glow on the Southern forest.

 

Arya wasn’t sure if her brother looked happy or sad. Either way, he looked . . . wise. As if the mossy rock was the back of a throne and he was resting his hands on its carved arms, rather than his knees.

 

“You look wise like that,” she told him.

 

He chuckled at that. “Well, little sister, I do not feel very wise this morning. Look at me and ask yourself what is missing.”

 

“A knight needs a sword.”

 

Jon shook his head.

 

“A knight needs a horse.”

 

He shook his head again and told her to really look.

 

“You’re not yet dressed, but-”

 

Jon grinned and nodded. “I have a favor to ask. The walk from the vigil to the knighting is all part of the ceremony. Besides, how would I look today if went about the castle in a dirty tunic and the breeches I wore all night?

 

“After you arrived yesterday, I realized that I needed a change to my cloak. I asked two maids, both good seamstresses, for their help. They assured me that they’d have it ready. Can you ask around for either Mylessa or Tansy? Oh, and could you bring me clean breeches and a doublet? Black or grey’ll be fine.”

 

Arya rolled her eyes at him.

 

Jon added, “Please, my ever so brave and clever sister.”

 

* * *

 

She found her mother in the feasting hall and asked after the maids.

 

“I fear I do not know either of them,” Catelyn answered. “But you, little lady, are in dire need of a bath.”

 

Arya’s grand-uncle scratched his close-cropped, grey-streaked beard and answered her question in his hoarse, but gentle voice, “You’ll find the sewing room on the third floor of the keep. The maids’ quarters are at the bottom of the corner tower, that way.” He pointed the way, then put both hands on his hips. He furrowed his wrinkled brow, playing at seriousness. “And, why might I ask, do you have need of them?”

 

“It’s a secret,” she replied with a grin.

 

Arya turned to leave, then remembered, “And which way is the barracks?”

 

“The knights, guards, and the squires stay in the corner tower off that way, but,” the Blackfish looked truly curious, but Arya didn’t wait for him to ask her again what she was up to.

 

Without turning back, she replied, “ _A secret_ , Ser Uncle Blackfish.”

 

Neither of the maids she needed were in their quarters. Next, she tried the barracks tower.

 

At the entrance, two men stopped her.

 

“I need to get in there,” she declared, impatient at being stopped.

 

“And who might you be? A little maid, mayhaps?” asked the first guard.

 

“Too small to be a maid. It would take her a moon’s turn to finish cleaning anything with those skinny arms,” jested his fellow.

 

“Anyhow, the cells and clothes were cleaned two days-“

 

“I’m not a maid!”

 

They nearly fell over each other laughing. Arya didn’t know if they were knights or men-at-arms or who they were, but she didn’t like them.

 

“Not like that! You . . . arse-river-scums! I’m Arya-”

 

“Arya, then,” one interrupted. “If you’re looking for a tumble, seek cock elsewhere, us two prefer maidens.”

 

She looked around to see that a dozen or more guards were watching the commotion. She froze for a moment, her anger slipping into embarrassment.

 

A burly captain pushed his way out of the entrance. He grabbed one of the two men mocking her by the collar and lifted him off the ground.

 

“That is Arya Stark, you toads! Lord Tully’s grand-daughter!”

 

Embarrassment abated in her and she could see it flooding over the guards.

 

They mumbled frantic apologies, but she only looked at the tall captain. He wore a greying beard and even looking up, Arya could tell the sun reflected off his bald head. His freckled skin crinkled like worn leather around his eyes, and his face changed from furious to fatherly in an instant.

 

“My lady, what do you require? Are you lost?”

 

She told him she needed to find her brother’s room. He led her up the stairs, which bent like a triangle at every landing. Jon’s room was smaller than she expected. His narrow bed was folded down from the wall on a chain and spanned the width of his cell. The captain reached for the chain, but Arya ducked under his arms and climbed onto the knee-high bunk.

 

Arya hopped off the other end of the bed and rummaged through some folded clothes. _Doesn’t he have any good clothes?_ Frustrated, she turned to see that the guard captain had folded up the bed.

 

“My lady,” he said, tapping his foot.

 

There on the ground, she saw a leather-on-wood trunk with iron studded edges.

 

She picked up a pair of breeches. “Do these look grey?” In the dim room, she wasn’t sure. “This too?”

 

He chuckled at her and took the breeches and leather jerkin from her and held them up to the small, round window.

 

“Dark greys, my little lady. Nearly black.”

 

“Thanks then. What else? Boys wear tunics under jerkins, right?”

 

He handed her the first two articles and she rolled them together as neatly as she could.

 

“Shirt?” he asked.

 

“Shirt,” Arya confirmed.

 

“Boot stockings?”

 

“Boot stockings.”

 

“Smallclothes?” he asked with an arched brow.

 

“Smallclothes,” she groaned.

 

Four women were at work in the sewing room. Jon’s cloak was ready and folded. Mylessa took Arya’s bundle. She picked up a cloth badge from on top of the black cloak and stitched it onto Jon’s jerkin. She quickly arranged everything into a pile and tied a string around it. When Arya tried to open the folds and peek at the badge, Mylessa gave her a soft push out the door and said, “Off you go, m’lady.”

 

She ran across a courtyard and cut through the main hall. Arya wondered if she was going to get Jon in trouble on his special knighting-day by taking so long. Just then, someone caught her by the arm.

 

“Robb, let me go! I’ve had enough of stupid boys in my way this morning.”

 

He released her and looked like he was going to ask a myriad of questions, but Arya stopped him. “I need your pin!”

 

“What?”

 

“Your pin! The pin. . . the silver wolf clasp keeping your cloak from pooling on the ground- I need it!” Arya demanded.

 

“Then how will I continue to keep _my_ cloak from _pooling on the ground_?”

 

“String?” Arya offered, holding up her bundle.

 

Robb frowned at her.

 

“But, I need it,” she repeated and reached a hand for it.

 

Robb relented. “Fine, _my lady_. I’ll find something else.”

 

Arya reached Jon breathless. She surprised herself by running straight to the right spot. That she could have gotten lost in the small, but unfamiliar wood did not occur to her until she had already found Jon.

 

He was drying off his face and hair, while Nymeria and Ghost stood side-by-side in the brook, trying to bite the running water.

 

She handed him the bundle. He looked at the clasp on top.

 

“A silver wolf?” Jon questioned.

 

“From Robb.”

 

“You mean a gift?”

 

“Ha! Yes. You keep it,” Arya grinned.

 

Jon reached out and mussed her hair. “I’ll meet you at the entrance to the godswood after I’ve dressed.”

 

* * *

 

They followed the septon to a plot of grass in the godswood. A nursemaid saw them and took a boy no older than Rickon in hand. The sun brightened the airy forest. A flock of a dozen crows took flight off the grass and landed in a tree overlooking the clearing.

 

The septon spoke, but Arya paid him no mind. The witnesses stood in a small crescent, facing deeper into the godswood. Jon and Ser Brynden stood facing the crowd, one pace behind the septon. _Sansa would love this._ With the flowering trees in the distance, the sun shining, and the birds watching from above, Arya thought the setting was better suited for a wedding than a warrior’s rite of passage.

 

Arya looked at the faces around her. Everyone stood, except for Uncle Edmure, who had a chair brought for him. She was surprised, and a bit angry on Jon’s behalf, that more people were not with them. Arya had assumed that the entire castle would be in attendance. The next Lord of the Riverlands was saved by Jon. She counted about five-and-ten faces. Beyond the three Starks and the single Tully, Arya noticed some finely dressed men with swords. _Probably knights,_ she thought. Four sewing women looked to be japing with their glances to each other. The others looked like they were each a fighting man, or boy, of some lesser status.

 

The septon was pot-bellied and mostly bald. What hair he had was brown and oily. It curved around the back of his head, except for a thin tuft on top, which he patted down toward his brow. All the while, he spoke in an irritating accent. _Father’s gods don’t need annoying septons and stupid septas or statues. They don’t even need names. You can just feel some hidden power when you look at a weirwood’s spooky eyes._ Arya remembered how Bran was too scared to follow her to the heart tree for years. She doubted that anyone thought this fat septon powerful or scary.

 

Jon stepped to the septon’s side and knelt. He reached down and dabbed something on Jon’s forehead, said something in a low voice, and then retreated to join the crowd.

 

Arya heard whispers behind her. “What’s he doing in those clothes? Where is the boy’s humble roughspun? Who does he think he is?”

 

She let out an exasperated sigh.

 

The Blackfish walked forward and held the blade of his sword just above Jon’s head.

 

“In the Mother’s name do to swear to protect the weak?” he asked.

 

“I swear,” promised Jon.

 

Then Uncle Brynden tapped Jon on each shoulder and made him swear by each of the Seven. When he was finished, he solemnly announced, “Arise Ser Jon of House Whitewolf.”

 

Jon threw back his black cloak, revealing a shield-shaped badge of a white direwolf racing across a black field. It made Arya imagine Ghost full grown and running through the dark of night.

 

Hoots and cheers sounded out. Small audience or not, Jon’s smile stretched as far as it could across his face. Arya shouted her brother’s new name. Robb whistled and when he begun to clap, all three leads slipped from his fingers. Grey Wind, Nymeria, and Ghost ran to Jon. The grey pups barked and jumped excitedly; Ghost pushed his head against Jon’s leg until he bent and reached his fingers into the pale white fur. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM owns everything of Ice and Fire. Fun not Profit. Winter_Wolf is awesome. So are comments.


	11. Jon - A proposal

* * *

 

“So, you’ve been back for days and will be leaving to live in your own keep soon, and you’re not even going to see her?” Arya asked mirthfully.

 

Over the past two years, Arya had grown bolder and Jon couldn’t have been more proud of her. The precociousness of a girl of eight was beginning to change into stubborn wit.

 

Jon shrugged, attempting to conceal his worry.

 

“You should write to her yourself,” she suggested. “You’ll be five-and-ten on your next name day. She already turned four-and-ten. You’re both grown! And, you should do something to impress her.”

 

He continued to look off the Great Keep’s covered bridge. The rain rattled on the roof above them. With the yard empty, Jon could not pretend that his attention was elsewhere.

 

“Are you afraid? Or. . . are you not fond of her anymore?”

 

“What? Perhaps a bit. No, I still think of her. ‘A bit’ was my answer to the first part. But, to _impress_ her? As in, some gesture Sansa would like?” he asked.

 

“Pfft! No. She isn’t anything like Sansa. You know she isn’t. Just think about what would impress you, if only you were a girl.”

 

Jon arched his eyebrows at her.

 

“If that doesn’t help,” she answered. “Think about what _I_ would like if I were a woman grown.”

 

Jon laughed. “Arya, you really are utterly different from her. Besides, I know she is. . . fond of me already.”

 

She gave him a shove in reply.

 

“What?” he returned. “It is true, isn’t it?”

 

Arya rolled her eyes. “Mayhaps so, _Robb!_ ” she said, mocking her quiet brother’s arrogant presumptiveness.

 

“It is not her that I need impress, but Lord Hornwood.”

 

Arya clutched her chin and leaned her elbow on the railing. Lost in thought for a moment, she let her head lean too far over the side and the downpour soaked her hair.

 

Jon laughed at her and said, “Let’s get you inside.”

 

* * *

 

Jon asked Mikken for his help with two favors. Against a bare wall inside the smithy, they drew with charred sticks until both agreed. Jon even assisted with blunt hammering, though he left all of the shaping and delicate work to the master armourer.

 

He paid a tanner in Wintertown to stitch two sheathes to his custom measures. The first was short and uncommonly thin. The other was five feet long and its fur lined mouth spread a foot and half wide.

 

When Mikken was finished, Jon sent a raven to Lord Halys and set out to leave. Lord Eddard ordered six guards to accompany Jon to Castle Hornwood.

 

As he was poised to depart, his wolf eagerly followed him to the stables. Ghost and the other direwolves were growing exceptionally quickly. Though still less than two months old, they already made the dogs in Farlen’s kennels fearful. Jon decided that Ghost was big enough to run alongside him on the ride.

 

They traveled south along the Kingsroad, before turning southeast. Jon, his wolf, and the others ferried across the White Knife and rode through the Sheepshead Hills. Unfamiliar with the terrain, they circled around the Hornwood forest, rather than chance a ride through it. The party made camp for one last night, knowing they would reach the castle on the following day.

 

Jon lay half curled on his side within his small canvas shelter. Ghost meandered between the other tents, as he had throughout the journey. The wolf loved the new scents and sounds, especially at night. Late after Jon fell asleep each night, Ghost would find his way to the tent and be by Jon’s side when he awoke.

 

On that final night, Jon was unsure of how long he’d slept when he woke with a start. Ghost ducked under the tent flap. Jon could smell unfamiliar animals nearby and his wolf turned about strangely.

 

“What is wrong with you?” he asked. “No one’s out there. Calm yourself, and sleep.” Memories of camping in the Riverlands wormed their way into Jon’s mind.

 

His wolf did not relent.

 

Jon buckled on his sword belt and followed the direwolf into the night.

 

The moon lit their way into the wood. Jon drew his longsword and followed tentatively. He stopped for a moment and looked back at the small camp. He wanted to tell the other men to come with him, but did not. _I am a knight._

 

As Ghost led him deeper into the wood, the sky began to lighten. Just then, he heard the faintest sound of movement in the distance. He shut his eyes and focused on the rustle. The noise grew clear and whatever scent he'd smelled just after waking, returned to him. Together, Jon and his little wolf crept after the sound.

 

Between the oaks and pine, Jon glimpsed what Ghost wished to follow.

 

The bull moose turned his head and looked at the boy and his direwolf with one eye. Ghost silently bared his teeth. The brown-coated beast stood towering over Jon and looked to weigh sixty stone. Its leaf-shaped antlers spanned five feet wide.

 

The moose lowered his antlers and stomped the ground with one hoof. Jon did not dare move.

 

He held back a smile at the absurdity.

 

“You must be mad, wolf. With or without me, you can’t hope to bring him down,” he whispered in reprimand. A bull moose was dangerous prey even for a pack of wolves. Neither Jon nor his young direwolf could hope to outrun or withstand its charge. “Ghost. . . down. Heel,” he urged.

 

Ghost did as he was told and dipped his head, but still bared his teeth. Jon took a deep breath and closed his eyes for but a moment. He could feel a change in his senses. His smell was strong again, but his hearing was even sharper than it had been. Jon opened his eyes and sheathed his sword. He didn't understand how, but he was certain that the moose wouldn’t charge.

 

Jon held both of his hands in front of himself and slowly stepped forward. “Ghost –wait. Stay,” he hushed. Speaking gently, he said, “You are big fellow, aren’t you? We’ll not harm you.”

 

The moose eyed him suspiciously, but did not attack or flee. When Jon was only a pace away, he bowed his head and extended his hand. After a long moment, the bull moose idled ahead and sniffed his hand. Jon slid his hand up the length of the moose’s snout and then back down, beneath his chin. He stepped under the antlers, running his hand slowly along the creature’s neck. Petting the imposing beast’s shaggy coat, he thought of a far better use for the moose, than Ghost’s fool-hardy plan to eat it.

 

* * *

 

When Jon neared the camp, morning was well upon them and he could hear the men calling out to him. He cleared the edge of the forest, a short walk from the camp. Two of the guards looked toward Jon and drew their swords.

 

“Jon! By the gods! What? That cannot be. . .” they stammered together.

 

“A moose, Harwin,” answered Jon. “Put those blades away and bring me a horse-blanket. And slowly, if you will.”

 

The others packed away their tents and mounted their horses. Harwin held the lead of Jon’s mare. Jon shook his head and gave the moose two pats.

 

“Down, my big companion. Easy now,” he coaxed. The moose wouldn’t cooperate, but didn’t run. Jon tossed the blanket across its back.

 

“Ser, you can’t mean t’ride it?” asked a guard in disbelief.

 

“Aye, I do.”

 

Harwin helped Jon up and he threw his leg over the steady giant.

 

The sun was setting when the party reached Castle Hornwood. The ancient trees surrounding it cast shadows on the pale, brown stone of its walls. The castle was far smaller than Winterfell, but nearly as old. The stories told of the First Men erecting a wooden bailey on that very spot while they still warred with the Children of the Forest. Once the Men and the Children agreed to the Pact, it served as an outpost to guard the villages further down the Broken Branch. The wary men did not come to trust their new allies until years later. Sometime after, wood was replaced with stone. Old Nan used to say that the Children living in Hornwood Forest would come to the castle every year during the Harvest Festival. In some of her stories, they traded tools imbued with their magic in return for food; in others, the Children traded for unwanted infants.

 

Harwin announced Jon and their party to the archers on the wall, one left to find Lord Hornwood while the others raised the gate.

 

“I still can’t believe I must call you a bloody _ser_ ,” japed Harwin.

 

Word of their arrival must have spread quickly, because Lord Halys’ entire household looked on. Jon stopped at the gateway and let the other men enter first. He sat six feet off the ground atop the moose in all its glory with his longsword on his hip and the pommel of a second sword showing over his shoulder. Jon encouraged his unusual mount to crouch with two pats on its neck, only to be rebuffed. Jon slid off as gracefully as he could. In an instant, the bull moose started his lumbering gait back to the wood and the blanket went sailing off his back.

 

“My lords,” he said to Lord Hornwood and his son, Daryn. He gave them a low bow and the guards from Winterfell did likewise. “My ladies,” Jon offered to Lady Donella Hornwood and Lydrea. He bowed to Lydrea and kissed her aunt’s hand.

 

Jon received a skeptical look from Lady Donella and Lydrea covered a chuckle. Daryn wore an amused grin and Lord Halys stepped forward.

 

“Ser Jon, and men of Winterfell, the courtesy of Castle Hornwood is yours. I welcome you to my home and hearth,” grinned the jovial lord.

 

“My lord,” replied Jon. “I thank you on behalf of each of us. May I also offer you a gift.”

 

“A gift to our _friendship_ , no doubt,” said Lord Hornwood wryly.

 

Jon nodded and unslung the sword across his back. He presented it with both hands. Halys unsheathed it and a smooth ring could be heard.

 

“Gods, Jon!” exclaimed Daryn.

 

Lord Hornwood raised the greatsword with both hands. The blade was a matte grey with a hilt of carved bone and brown leather. A craggy, round pommel secured the hilt. The crossguard, however, was an achievement of Mikken’s all on its own. In place of a flat bar, a set of glossed steel antlers sprung from both sides of the blade.

 

“A fine gift, ser,” he declared and led them all into his hall.

 

After a generous meal of Northern fare, Lydrea offered Jon a tour of the castle. As he stood, Lady Donella gave him a nod; Daryn whispered something to his father and both laughed heartily.

 

Lydrea Hornwood clutched his arm and guided him out of the hall and to the Lord’s Keep. She told him about the layout of the castle and asked him about his time in Riverrun and his holdfast in the Wolfswood.

 

After they entered the keep, Lydrea took Jon by the hand and led him up the stairs. Their footsteps echoed through the high-set chamber. The set of stairs climbed steep and straight for the first four stories, without a switchback or spiral. Jon’s boots fit neatly into the footprints worn in the dark brown stone over the centuries. Overhead, he could see a huge weirwood beam bracing against the walls lengthwise. It was supported in the middle by a stone arch spanning the narrow width of the stairs. Jon wondered if that weirwood had a face before it was cut down to make the support. Weirwood never rotted, so Jon couldn’t tell how long ago it was first placed, high above the stairs.

 

Lydrea abruptly dropped his arm and bounded back down the stairs, two at a time. Jon put a hand on the wall to steady himself and looked down the steep drop to the landing.

 

She scooped up his white direwolf, who was confused for a moment, then twisted his head to lick her chin.

 

Carrying Ghost, Lydrea saw Jon holding onto the wall for balance. She giggled at him and assured, “It’s not so precarious as it looks, ser.”

 

At the top, he followed Lydrea down a hallway, through two rooms, up a second staircase, through a smaller hallway, and into a windowless storage closet at one corner of the square keep. She guided him through the pitch dark room and placed his hand onto the wooden rung of a ladder. With Ghost under one arm, she carefully climbed.

 

The curved tops of two colored windows from the floor below illuminated the far end of the loft. Jon stood up and immediately bumped the top of his head on the low rafters.

 

“Sorry,” Lydrea cringed. “I should have warned you.”

 

She seated herself on a blanket already laid out before the windows and bid Jon to do the same.

 

Dust fell like snowflakes in the streaks of light. When Jon sat down, they swirled away.

 

Ghost curled into her lap and contently allowed Lydrea to pet his fur.

 

“Is this one of the places you like to come to?” Jon asked.

 

“Yes,” she answered. “I don’t think anyone knows of it, save for me. And now you.”

 

Jon felt honored by the privilege, and anxious as well. She was looking straight into his eyes. The light caught her hair and glimmered in some of the strands.

 

“Thanks for bringing me here.”

 

“Of course. And, I am grateful for your visit. Unless, Jon, you intend for more than a _visit_.”

 

He chuckled and felt both relieved and slightly embarrassed that she openly hinted at what he had been too scared to mention thus far. He tugged at the badge on his jerkin and answered, “I did this for you, in truth. For myself as well, but I doubt that I would have attempted any of it without your urging.” He thought to explain his vagaries, but he could see in her eyes that she understood.

 

He cleared his throat and said, “I would offer you what I have –no, _all_ that I have. Perhaps your uncle could find a better match, but. . .”

 

Her only answer was a kiss.

 

Lydrea’s lips were soft and sweet. Jon thought to wrap his arms around her, but he sat too far away and kept them at his sides.

 

He was thrilled by this particular answer. Jon wished to leave their conversation at that, but felt compelled to ask, “But. . . knighted or not, why would you choose me? I’m sure your uncle could find a better match.”

 

“And what would make another match better, Jon? Who his parents are? I think you understand me better than another match would. You have a tender kindness to you. And. . .” She looked away. “You are quite handsome.”

 

Jon had never heard such words from a woman before. He was delighted and embarrassed.

 

“You are too,” he whispered. “Pretty, though. Rather than handsome.”

 

“Besides,” she added in a teasing tone. “If not you, then probably one of Lord Manderly’s nephews or even grandsons. If they take after him, I’m like to suffocate on my wedding night.”

 

Jon laughed and leaned close for another kiss.

 

* * *

 

“My lord? I beg pardon, may I have a word?” Jon peered into Lord Halys’s solar. Though the door had been open when he approached, he refrained from entering without the lord’s leave.

 

“Ser Jon, by all means, enter.”

 

Daryn Hornwood gave his father a grin before leaving with the other man who'd been attending the lord. Jon took the chair he was offered, by the hearth.

 

They exchanged pleasantries and Halys remarked that his new blade was a fine bit of steel.

 

“Enough of all that, lad,” he ordered. “Out with it.”

 

Jon just stared at him.

 

“You must needs to make the request before you can hear a lord’s answer.”

 

“My lord, I mean to say that. . . I seek your niece’s, -Lydrea’s, her hand, my lord.”

 

“Her hand?! That is a grotesque request!” Lord Hornwood bellowed. “What would you have me do? Cut it from her arm with my new sword?”

 

“My lord, no! You mistake my meaning! I -” Jon was interrupted by the man’s laughter.

 

“Pour yourself a horn of ale, ser. And top mine to the brim,” he said. “Did you suppose that I have been unaware of the goings on in my own home? A dozen or more letters from that sister of yours did not escape my notice, nor did my niece’s mood on the days after the arrival of each one. My first thought was that she was receiving charms from your brother, until Daryn confessed to seeing _you_ with my Drea, strolling about Winterfell.”

 

Jon took a long pull of the thick, honeyed brew. He wondered if he should promise to safeguard Lydrea or make some other oath.

 

“You need not look so harried, lad,” Halys said. “My niece has felt enough hardship for a girl her age.” His tone grew melancholic, “Her mother was a kind woman, though I did not know her well. My brother was stern and his mind always fixed on honor, even as a boy. Has she told you the story of his death?”

 

Jon shook his head.

 

“I sent him to a village on our lands, in my stead. We’d gotten word of three rapers. The story we’d heard would turn your stomach inside out. These men were cruel even among other such criminals. Rodnel went on _my_ orders, not to track them, but to listen to the smallfolk. He never returned.”

 

Lord Hornwood paused to refill his cup and to top off Jon’s. “Roose Bolton,” he hissed, “claimed weeks later to have found the men. Even brought me three heads. Beaten so bloody, they were, that I couldn’t hope to ask any in the village to name these the same three.

 

“So I cared for Rodnel’s girl as if she were mine own. What else was I to do? Lay siege to the Dreadfort when none could disprove Bolton’s claim of justice?”

 

Jon saw a man before him who looked a decade older than the affable Lord of Hornwood.

 

“M’lord?” someone called while cracking the door.

 

“Come in, maester.”

 

The man who stepped inside was the youngest maester Jon had ever seen. He was no more than five-and-twenty. In place of a maester’s robes, he wore breeches and a loose tunic of rough-spun grey wool. He wore three maester’s links around his neck and the rest of his chain was made of plain, brass ringlets. When he saw Lord Hornwood’s face, the young maester assured his lord that the matter would keep until the morning and left.

 

“Is that the first you’ve seen of our wizen old maester?” asked Lord Halys, his face conforming to its well-worn wrinkles as he resumed his usual smile. “Truth be told, the title is merely a courtesy. He’s ne’er even set foot in Oldtown,” he laughed. “Oh, we have a true maester as well: a learned man, one who follows commands because he is sworn to do so. Yet, he doesn’t understand me, or most anyone in my castle. He’s vague about where he was born, but like as not it was somewhere in the Reach. The old ways of the North are as foreign to him as the practices of the Summer Isles.

 

“Years ago, an acolyte who had no intention of remaining celibate happened upon my father’s castle; I doubt it was the first place he offered his services. My father made use of him and the man took a common girl for a wife. He taught his son, whom you just saw, all he’d learned. He serves well enough, tending the ravens and mild sicknesses. But more importantly, he was born in this castle and the North is the only home he’s ever known. As such, I trust him as I would my own kin. Remember Jon, no matter what he may tell you, a man in grey robes is still a man.”

 

Lord Halys cleared his throat, “But to the matter at _hand_ , think on why I have not arranged a betrothal for my niece. Why, the Karstark girl who will marry Daryn is younger by, mayhaps, two years. The letters you exchanged gave me pause, but that day some weeks ago settled the matter in my view. She received a letter one morning and cried for the first time since she was small, cried for hours. When I discovered the reason, and soon after that you had in fact survived, I knew to expect you’d come calling. I have questions and I will have the truth from you.”

 

Jon sat at attention.

 

“Where will you live? ” he asked. “Here? Winterfell?”

 

Jon told him of his keep in the Wolfswood.

 

“Thinking on my young maester, you would do well to ask Lord Stark’s old _grey robes_ write to some friend of his in the Citadel asking after some acolyte, like the one who found my father," he suggested. "I doubt they’ll send a newly landed knight a fully sworn maester.

 

“Next, how in the bloody hells did you manage that show with the eight foot sigil of my house? That beast could have shrugged you off and gutted you with less effort than you expend wiping your arse!”

 

“I don’t rightly know, my lord,” he answered with a smile. “My wolf led me to it. I think he meant to eat it.”

 

Lord Hornwood’s laugh thundered in Jon’s ears.

 

“That wee little thing?!”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Jon chuckled. “Just him and me. But when I approached, the bull moose seemed almost. . . _eager_ to follow.”

 

Halys shrugged.

 

“And for the last,” he began. “What do I call you? I’ve heard the men style you, ‘The Whitewolf’, ‘Ser Jon Whitewolf’, or also ‘of Whitewolf’. Which is it?”

 

Jon shook his head, grinning, “I am not certain, my lord. The name, I like. It seems fitting in light of my direwolf and in homage to the Blackfish of Riverrun and the Starks too. _The Whitewolf_ or _Jon Whitewolf_ , neither displeases me. I intend to pass it on as the name of a knightly House for my sons. That is of bigger importance to me than the rest of all that.”

 

“Well, Ser Jon the Whitewolf of House Whitewolf,” Lord Halys declared.  He reached across the hearth and clasped Jon by the back of his neck. “You may tell your father, and my niece, that I have consented.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM owns everything of Ice and Fire. Fun not Profit. Winter_Wolf is awesome. So are comments.


	12. Eddard - A Ceremony

Only once before had Eddard Stark witnessed so much change so quickly.

 

In only a month and one half, his children had found living sigils of his house, Jon Arryn had died, Jon Snow returned from the dead and earned a knighthood, and Robert Baratheon was on his way to Winterfell with his royal court. And Ned stood, watching Jon speak his marriage vows in front of two faceless weirwoods. _And merely a short walk from a keep of his own._

 

The holdfast had been half-ruined when his men found it. _All for the better,_ he thought. The stone from the ruined half served well in restoring the salvageable half. Ned smiled thinking of this small happiness.

 

Still, he could not help but reflect on the more troubling happenings. _Jon Arryn is dead._ Sixteen years ago, he’d lost a different father. Then it had been the father who sired him; now the father who raised him was lost as well. _My father in all but name._

 

A cheer went up as Jon took his bride into his arms. _My son in all but name._ The young pair, both fourteen and younger than even Ned had been at his wedding, led all those assembled to the small feasting hall.

 

Robett Glover provided the tables, a present to please Eddard far more than Jon. At the table of honor, Ned sat with his children, Lord and Lady Hornwood, Daryn Hornwood, Lady Berena Tallhart, Robett, and Ser Wylis Manderly, as well as the newlyweds. Each noble who made the journey was present on account of kinship. Ser Wylis was kin to Lady Hornwood. Lady Tallhart was the sister of Lord Hornwood. Robett Glover, though not related by blood himself, brought Lawrence Snow to witness his cousin’s wedding.

 

The guards and servants for all of the lords and ladies filled the other two tables. The hall could bear no more, even if anyone else had been inclined to attend.

 

Soup of turnips, salsify root, and barleycorn; a main course of brazed venison and loaves of spelt-grain bread, and a dessert of plum pie was modest fare, but nothing to feel poorly about. Most of the food brought by the guests went to the keep’s stores. Other lords might have taken insult at that, but Robett merely jested that Jon had obviously not forgotten his father’s words in saving this boon for winter. No one appeared put out.

 

During the feast, Jon acted more refined than Eddard expected. He demurely assisted his lady with the meal, cutting her meat off the bone and even feeding her at times. Lydrea blushed at the attention, but her smile never wavered.

 

After the meal, the guests stacked the tables against the wall to make room for dancing. Both Jon and Lydrea were too bashful to begin the revelry, but a jubilant Halys Hornwood and a wine-besotted Robett Glover took the young couple's place by locking elbows and swinging each other about. The attendees supplied their own songs, half singing and half shouting, while stomping out a rhythm on the stone floor.

 

Ned thought of his own wedding. The dark shadow of war had hung over the Riverrun feasting hall. Ned himself was mayhaps more reserved than anyone. _Father was dead. Brandon was dead. His castle and bride fell to me. Would that I could have had a wedding like this. . . Would that I might have kept my word._

 

He shook his mind free of old wounds and the ghosts of lost loved ones. Turning his attention back to the celebration at hand, Ned smiled inwardly as Robb found himself without a dancing partner at the change; Jon refused to switch when everyone else did. Lydrea gave her new good-brother an apologetic look before aiming her smile back at Jon.

 

With the imbalance of men to women, Sansa spent the entire night on her feet, much to her delight and that of Daryn Hornwood. _He best keep his hands high upon her back._

 

Even Arya found herself dancing for a song. Lord Hornwood lifted her from the bench and twirled her off her feet. Try as she did to look put out, Arya couldn’t resist laughing along with him.

 

Long into the night and after the second singing of _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ , Daryn and Robb shouted, “The _Wolf_ and the Maiden Fair!” and the bedding ceremony began. With the crowd short on women and long on men, Jon was pushed to the stairs fully clothed, while Lydrea was carried overhead and down to her smallclothes before she was out of the hall. The rest of the men followed after them, crowding the rotunda in the middle of the spiraling stairs. Most yelled bawdy jests upward, while Eddard and Halys shouted for caution, watching Lydrea held much higher than the railings.

 

Rickon awoke when Ned retrieved him from his chair. He and Bran were more than a little excited to share a room with Robb and their father.

 

* * *

 

Ned was the last of the Stark boys to rise the next morning. That his sons had already woken up, dressed, and begun their day after so little sleep amused him. When he had drifted off, Bran was still prodding Robb for stories. Robb was merrily whispering newly invented tales of valiant knights and maidens with slim waists and curved hips. Eddard do not doubt that his eldest had drank more ale than he had allowed. Rickon, who slept through half of the feast, was so delighted by the attention of his brothers that he giggled and clapped at every jape, even those a boy of three couldn’t possibly understand.

 

In the hall, Ned saw the hefty heir to White Harbor still breaking his fast. After he sat, Halys joined them.

 

“Lord Stark, may Ser Wylis and I have a word?” asked Hornwood.

 

Ned nodded.

 

“My lord, this is a fine holdfast for your son and Lydrea,” began Wylis. “But what, pray tell, will the handsome couple do to support themselves?”

 

Stark said, “What all landed knights do, I suppose. I filled his stores, which you have now added to, I granted him rights to hunt small game and any male deer or elk in this part of the Wolfswood, and my men expanded the clearing just to the west of here, which should be suited for a small crop.”

 

“Noble and generous, to be sure, my lord,” answered Manderly.

 

“Lord Ned, they are provisioned for the next winter, but what of the winter after?" Halys asked. "And, will their children have enough to continue this house?”

 

Ned knew they were leading to something. “You both sound as if you don’t expect them to. Do you have a different thought?”

 

“Aye, my lord.”

 

“My lord knows us all too well,” replied Wylis. “Though she is not of Manderly blood, my lord father has always been fond of Lady Lydrea, and I’ve thought of her as a young cousin for many years. Lord Halys and I spoke yesterday about a dowry of sorts. When we saw the surplus timber left from that crop-clearing you mentioned, we had the idea.”

 

Ned furrowed his brow. The Hornwoods and Manderlys were friendlier with each other than perhaps any other pair of Stark bannermen. Their lands bordered each other, their families often intermarried, and they were united in their distrust of the nearby Boltons, though the latter was shared with nearly the entire North. Still, he couldn’t help being leery of what they might say next.

 

“White Harbor is always in need of good timber, none of the thickets on our lands could hope to match the Wolfswood or the Hornwood and Sheepshead Hills,” Ser Manderly continued.

 

“Ser, you have my leave to speak plainly.” _And to make your point._ “I’ll hear your thoughts on Jon’s livelihood.”

 

“Lord Stark,” Halys said. “In return for a portion of Jon’s, _and your_ , lumber and what I will add to it, the Manderlys can arrange for a trader to bring Ser Jon and the wood to Braavos. Full tree trunks are rare there and even firewood fetches good coin.”

 

“That sounds amenable, my lords. Yet, why would Jon need travel? He is no seafarer.”

 

“I can put the question to my merchant captain, my lord,” said Wylis. “I have a particular trader in mind, the most reliable of any that frequent White Harbor. This man, though, has insisted that I accompany him on similar voyages. The captain says that his men dislike ‘ferrying’ a lord’s goods. In the sale of such goods, they receive little direct profit, never mind the flat fare they earn for the journey. Sailors and oarsmen are a temperamental and superstitious lot and, practical or not, this crew prefers the idea of sailing under a lord’s banner with him on deck. Besides, crossing from White Harbor to Braavos is only a brief journey. Accounting for the time for your son to ride to White Harbor, away and back will take only a matter of weeks, two months at the lengthiest.”

 

Politely, Wylis Manderly added, “Before we spoke with Ser Jon or Lady Lydrea, we thought to raise the issue with you first, lest you have any objections.”

 

Eddard agreed that some gold would mean much for the newly founded house. He told them that he would bring the matter to Jon directly and thanked the men for seeking his approval. Privately, he knew Jon would be excited by the idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick chapter, posted quickly.


	13. Jon - A New Morning

* * *

Ser Jon awoke with his arm completely numb and a mess of light brown hair in his face.

 

He patted the hair away softly and tried to steal back his arm. With the use of only one elbow, Jon couldn’t get leverage to sit up. He reached across his body to grasp and pull his useless arm free.

 

“What are you getting on about?” an alert Lydrea japed. “Oh, your arm is it? Might be I’ll give it back, might be I won’t.”

 

He slid closer, leaning on top of her sternum. Jon stroked her hair out of her face and tucked it behind an ear. Clutching her chin, he lowered his lips for a kiss, his arm forgotten.

 

Lydrea wrapped her arms around him, over one shoulder and under the other, and pulled him close.

 

“You’re so warm when you sleep. I’m always so chilly at night.”

 

She closed her ankles around his right leg.

 

He gasped. “Your feet are like ice,” he told her. Jon angled his head and kissed her neck, saying, “But I s‘pose I’ll get used to it. . .” He added, “wife,” to try the sound of it.

 

She giggled and squirmed further under their furs.

 

“But, there’ll be plenty to get used to, my lady. We didn’t have much of a betrothal. Was it even a fortnight?”

 

She lifted her hands free to collect her hair into a lock behind her head, gave it one twist, then flipped it on top of her shoulder. After that pause, Lydrea replied, “It was more like two years. Do you think I didn’t know you’d be looking to carry me off back then?”

 

Jon blushed. _Was I so obvious?_

 

“Two weeks or two years, I had to wait as long as I cared to.”

 

She was pleased at those words and raised herself up for another kiss.

 

Jon had been thinking about what would please her even before she arrived with her uncle’s riding party. Throughout the ceremony and the feast, he was quieter than usual and she was fairly reserved as well. Compared to Robb and Daryn in their cups, they’d both been nearly silent. Even when trying to look proper, though, Jon and Lydrea nestled close at the head table Robett Glover brought.

 

Thinking about the kiss she’d just given him, he teased, “You seemed to like that.”

 

“I’m finding a great many things that happen to like, ser.”

 

Jon quirked a smile and flushed furiously. Last night, he found out how little he knew about what a woman liked, but Lydrea was just as verdant as him. He’d attempted to apologize for his lack of knowledge, but she told him, “This is all so new for me as well. I rather like that you don’t know any more than me, as opposed to you acting like some well-salted master.”

 

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “My arm, it’s just now waking.” Jon slid his other arm beneath her and rolled over, pulling her with him and freeing his arm completely.

 

She laughed at him and tried to rub some blood back into the palm of his hand.

 

Just then, hands pounded out furious knocks on the door. Jon heard laughter and the sound of running footfalls.

 

“Bran and Arya,” he guessed.

 

“Or Halys and Ned,” she replied. “But if everyone’s up, then we should be too.”

 

Jon jokingly grumbled, but agreed.

 

Lydrea mentioned that she’d like to soak in a bath.

 

“I don’t know if we even have one.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jon dressed and found that Lady Donella had already thought of such things. She pointed him to the cramped kitchen, which sat just off the main hall. Two cooks, one from Winterfell and the other from Castle Hornwood, heated up some water in a cast-iron cauldron. Once ready, Jon picked up the empty tub and enlisted the siblings who’d disturbed him and even Robb to carry a procession of the various pots and kettles they used to draw the hot water from the cauldron. The procession of serving wolves made a second trip and then Jon gave Lydrea her privacy.

 

His father waved Jon down to the bottom of the stairs. Eddard explained to Jon the idea of Ser Wylis and Lord Halys.

 

“Do you think I should?”

 

“Jon,” he said. “This is your choice, and mayhaps Lady Lydrea’s too, but not mine. I think Lord Manderly and his son will be pleased at the surplus wood for their role in this and Lord Halys will earn some easy coin, but they are mostly looking out for Lydrea. It’s said that a long winter follows every long summer, so think this over carefully.”

 

* * *

 

 

The guests filed down the footpath and all left in good spirits. Ser Wylis and Lord Halys even repurposed some of their horsecarts to begin carrying away cut timber, preempting Jon’s answer.

 

Once they were gone, the holdfast was decidedly peaceful. Lydrea linked her arm in his and told him, “I never really took a long look at this place. Mayhaps, my husband would be kind enough to show me about?”

 

Standing under the archway of the entrance, Jon began with where they were. It stood two-and-ten feet tall at the top. On either side of the arch, two small bulwarks protruded as guard posts. He stepped up the holds cut into the stone of the one on the left and motioned for her to do the same on the other. Standing at the post, the wall reached up to his chest, just low enough for a man to fire a bow. The wall was narrow and without crenellations.

 

“When Robb first showed me all this, he beamed with pride. It was as if he’d rebuilt the ruins all on his own. Notice how you stand at a corner? The end of the holdfast? This archway was once in the middle of the wall. The north and south walls had been twice as long as the other sides. The western half of the walls were in complete ruin when my father’s man first found it. Now that new, western wall, which forms your corner, boards off the ruined half. A second keep used to sit at the other end, but now it’s only rubble,” he said. “They used the stone for our keep and the other buildings.

 

He leaned against the wall. Closing one eye, Jon looked along the top of his wall and noticed slight flaws in its straightness. Iron spikes once lined its top, but only rust-colored stains remained. He imagined a row of gleaming, steel pikes guarding his new home; each spearpoint fashioned to look like the profile of a small wolf howling up at the sky.

 

“The walls are not so wide as for a guard to walk them, like he might the walls of Winterfell. So these guardsposts, yours and mine, the two on either side of the other entrance, and the two in the far corners, are where a guard would stand to defend the holdfast. Loosing arrows from here or from up in the keep.”

 

Jon pointed over to their keep. It was round and extended five floors high with a compact, cone roof. “Can you tell that the stone for the walls and keep is all the same?”

 

“I see that,” she observed. “Grey, flecked with black.”

 

“Aye. The stone is the same, but can you tell that one half is newly mortared?”

 

“Like a giant slashed it with a sword,” Lydrea demonstrated a cut in the air. “So, that’s the ‘new’ section.”

 

“That part and the roof weren’t standing when they found the keep.”

 

Thin arrow slits encircled the second, third, and fourth floors. The top floor bore square, evenly spaced windows. A straight abutment protruded from the side of the keep closest to them. Jon pointed it out as the feasting hall, to which Lydrea quipped that she could never have puzzled it out on her own. Its sides were made from the same dark rock as everything else. The tip of the hall’s pitched, stone roof reached two floors high against the keep.

 

Two lines of small buildings led to the hall and keep, forming a narrow yard. There were seven of them; in place of an eighth lay a towering mound of soil. All seven stone huts stood no taller than a single story.

 

“Each of those is bigger than it looks, _my lady_. Shortly after the men started on timber houses atop several dirt bulges, Maester Luwin counseled Robb to have them stop and dig. He was right, of course. The centuries had laid dirt and the mulch of dead leaves over what used to stand. The laborers found buildings extending into the ground. The wood was rotted and wormholed, but still kept much of the dirt from caving in. They built new walls of mortared stone inside each. Those two wide ones,” he pointed. “A barn and a stable, most like. Earthen ramps lead below, rather than ladders. In the winter, the animals will be glad for the cover.”

 

“And what a collection of beasts we have,” Lydrea said. “Not that I mean it in a bad way, Jon. You know, just that we have no livestock, only Drifts, your mare, and the garron Wylis left.”

Jon replied that the shaggy horse was a kind gift, but she fondly joked, “My coz had little choice in the matter, the horse was like to break its back if it had to carry his weight again on the journey back to White Harbor.”

 

He took her arm and led her to the keep. They played at it being their first time through the arched hallway. It was five paces long and led to an open, circular rotunda-column. Stairs with a waist-high guardwall wound up to the higher floors. The round inner wall of each level contained doors to the various rooms. Pointing at the enclosed, brickstone hearth in the center, Jon let out an exaggerated gasp.

 

In truth, he was still a bit taken by the unique furnace and the newness of it all. Jon asked, “Do you see how the chimney splits?”

 

“It appears we’ve found a chimney-tree growing in our keep.”

 

He smiled. “The original masons must have built the walls around them. A chimney runs up through each room. Only the _lord’s_ quarters at the top has its own hearth. This one, center furnace and the branching chimneys heat this open, middle spire and the entire keep.”

 

They walked up the spiraling stairs. The fourth floor was not separated into rooms like the rest. Stone arches took the place of walls.

 

“I hadn’t looked through the doors on this floor, Jon. I just thought it would be like the others.”

 

 “I think that this was laid out for the defense of the keep, mayhaps,” he said. “To quickly move from slit to slit firing arrows. ”

 

“Or storage,” she guessed.

 

At the top of the stairs on the fifth floor was a walkway circling around the open rotunda. The lower floors were each separated into small rooms. Unlike those, the highest level had only three. Half of the floor was partitioned for Jon and Lydrea’s bedchamber and the other half was split between two other rooms.

 

 “I could hardly believe the space afforded to us,” Lydrea admitted.

 

Though broad, the crescent room was sparsely furnished, with only a bed, a small table, and two chairs. But, it was bright with sunlight from the four full windows. The grey stone looked softer and warmer in the brightness.

 

“I can _still_ hardly believe that they fitted each of the windows and arrow slits with glass,” Jon said. “ _Actual glass_ in everyone of them. When he saw my reaction, Robb hooted in amusement that first day.”

 

Jon went to one window and gingerly touched it. Between wrought iron bars were squares of thick, smoky glass, each as long and wide as Jon’s hand.

 

“All the squares are the same size,” he continued. “Arranged to fit these and the narrower slits below.”

 

Still facing the window, Jon looked out and said, “The best part, though, was when my brother japed that he would spend that first night, before any one besides us had arrived for the wedding, in one of the other two rooms on this level. ‘The Boys Room’ he called it.” _Our sons. And the other one will be filled with our daughters,_ Jon thought, but left unsaid.

 

She understood his meaning nonetheless.

 

Lydrea walked up and hugged him from behind. “You really do get sentimental some times, don’t you?”

 

“It’s not as if-”

 

But she stopped his explanation. “No, I _like_ that about you. . .” She giggled and then whispered, “Not to worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

 

* * *

 

 

Supper on their first night with the keep truly their own provided an opportune time for Jon and Lydrea to acquaint themselves with their household.

 

In Winterfell, the servants did not eat at the same hour as Lord Stark, let alone share his table. After the two serving girls in Jon’s keep placed the meal on his table, they simply sat down. Jon would have felt foolish banning them from eating with him.

 

Jon seated himself at the head of the unvarnished oak table. Needing only one, the other two tables from the Glovers were left stacked against the wall. In his plain chair, Jon thought of where his father sat in _his_ hall. The throne of Winterfell invoked thoughts of the Northern Kings of old. When troubled, Eddard often rubbed the carved direwolves on which his hands rested. Jon’s chair didn’t even have arms.

 

His young wife sat close by, to Jon’s left. On his right, a guardsman from Winterfell took the honored position.

 

“Lady Lydrea,” Jon said fondly. “It pleases me to introduce Gariss, our master-at-arms. My father thought him the best fitted for our keep.”

 

To her, Gariss added, “Lord Stark japed that I spent so much of my days hunting in the Wolfswood, like as not I won’t notice the change in station.”

 

Lydrea then presented the two kitchen girls next to her as Macey and Juniper. Both were only a few years older than her.

 

“They grew up in Castle Hornwood, I’ve known them since we were girls.”

 

Macey joked, “M’lady is _still_ half a girl.”

 

The cook sitting further down, Harland, was also from Lord Hornwood’s household.

 

The carpenter, who had stayed after the other men rebuilding the holdfast left, introduced himself as, “Grecor.”

 

Jon nodded to the man at the opposite end of the table, on Gariss’s side. The man’s homely face looked up anxiously. “That is Tryne and those three young children are his. It was Arya, in fact, who found him. We stopped at a village along the White Knife on our way from Riverrun. She heard that he was a mason, asked him what exactly that meant he did, then offered him and the children a place with us on my behalf.”

 

On the road to Winterfell, Jon had asked Tryne about the children’s mother. Of her, he said, “Isn’t here, not no more.” Jon didn’t know if that meant that she died or if she walked out on them, but did not press the man further. He felt a deep respect for the lonely father trying to do right by his children, as well as felling sympathy for the little ones.

 

“Gariss, what of that other boy? The quiet one so keen on following you about?” Jon asked.

 

“I don’t rightly know, Ser Jon. He’s a mute, I think, or just shy. An orphan who came along with one of your guests, s’ far as I can tell. He’s off somewhere, but I’ll save him a plate.”

 

The rest of the night’s meal was spent with each party tentatively trying to explore how they fit together. _I make them uneasy,_ Jon concluded. He told himself, in time, he would remedy that.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydrea was already dressing when Jon first opened his eyes that morning. He let his gaze wander upwards from her stockings, over the curve of her hips and dip of her waist, her smallclothes, and her bare breasts, where his eyes lingered.

 

She saw him and instantly turned away.

 

Jon’s face flushed and he averted his eyes. “My lady, I shouldn’t have. . . I. . .I’m sorry.” He searched his mind for the proper words.

 

“No,” she replied. “I should not have turned away. You’re supposed to. . .”

 

When Lydrea turned to face him, she was clutching a dress to her chest. She watched his face as she tentatively lowered her hands. “Do you like. . .” As she trailed off, Lydrea looked at the ground.

 

_Gods._

 

“Yes. Very much.”

 

Jon motioned for her to come over to the bed. She smiled shyly at him and pulled the dress in her hands back over her bosom.

 

Lydrea seated herself on the edge of their bed, and Jon sat up to meet her eyes. Suddenly bashful himself, he checked to be certain that the furs hadn’t slide below his waist. She chuckled when she saw him fuss with the bedding. He looked up at her, and Lydrea again lowered her covering.

 

Jon bent forward and wrapped his hands around her waist. Lydrea let slip a cheerful squeal when Jon pulled her closer.

 

He tucked his head to kiss her small, firm breasts. With his lips, he traced a line up her arm, and over her shoulder. His kiss brushed her neck and Lydrea laughed and wriggled away.

 

“Ticklish?”

 

He tried to kiss her neck again, but she was too quick. Once standing, Lydrea crossed her arms.

 

“If you don’t want me to look, I won’t.” _I don’t know if I could ever keep that pledge._

 

She took a deep breath and her hands fell to her hips. Her expression belayed a fragility which Jon had never seen in her.

 

He told his new wife, “I _do_ like the look of you. I mean, how you look. You’re. . . I am fond of every part of you.”

 

“Truly? You are not. . . disappointed?”

 

Jon couldn’t believe she would have to ask such a question.

 

“No. Of course. I’m fond of every part.”

 

Lydrea gave him an encouraging smile. After a moment, her expression faltered and she asked, “So you do not think. . .”

 

Jon shook his head preemptively.

 

“. . . my chest too small. . . or my hips too. . . my thighs are kind of. . .”

 

He realized that she was trusting him with her worries and hung on his opinion in this.

 

“Every part,” he repeated. “Your pretty face, your tempting body.”

 

Jon blushed at his words and she beamed.

 

She sat on his legs and said, “I just needed to hear that. Just once.”

 

His wife threw her arms around him. Neither of them knew what to say next, so she just said, “I thought we might go riding. Want to?”

 

* * *

 

 

If ever there was a suitable path between the old holdfast and the Wolfswood trail that led from Winterfell to Deepwood Motte, it had grown over long ago.

 

Jon led his mare gingerly through the undergrowth. _At least the builders stomped down a course through the bushes._ Lydrea followed on her beloved horse, Drifts.

 

No snow fell that morning, but still a light wind cut through the crisp air.

 

Jon mused about clearing a trail himself.

 

When they reached the main route through the forest, Lydrea said, “From here, there’s no sign of our keep.”

 

 _Ours_ , Jon thought.

 

They cantered in the direction of Deepwood Motte. A short ways off, Jon found the beginnings of a rudimentary pathway.

 

“This leads to _our_ clearing,” Jon said.

 

“Show me the way, good ser.”

 

His mare happily bounded through the wood. _This ride is a great deal more cheerful than that other forest ride, isn’t it girl?_

 

Up ahead, Jon saw the end of the path. The shadowed light beneath the canopy and the brightness beyond it made the threshold of the clearing as distinct as any doorway. Jon rode through it and had to shield his eyes from the sun.

 

Lydrea hollered something at Jon, before her horse burst passed him.

 

Instantly, Jon’s chest tightened and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He turned his mare to face back at the forest and readied himself.

 

 _It’s nothing, Jon_ , he told himself. Embarrassed, he looked over to Lydrea and fortunately she was still busy galloping through the field.

 

Jon took note of the ground that he would eventually have farmed. The middle was the natural clearing. It arched into a hill and was covered in dull-green crabgrass and brown rushes. Encircling the center was a wide oval that used to be forest. A thick blanket of leaves covered the ground between the stumps. Few had been upturned and most would need to be uprooted before the soil could be plowed. He also saw the felled trees and remembered the conversation that he’d been putting off for two days.

 

Jon watched his new wife for a minute longer. Her orange riding dress was well-worn, but suited her. Lydrea had it made with an extra fold of fabric in the front of the skirt and a slit hemmed in the back so she could sit astride a horse. It billowed and fluttered as she deftly steered her palfrey around the edge of the grass. Her braid bounced against her back in time with every other stride.

 

Jon walked his horse to the top of the slight hill. Lydrea saw him and guided hers to meet him. Both she and Drifts were breathing hard when she reined up.

 

Lydrea smiled at him and announced, “He likes it.”

 

“Wait ‘til it’s fully groomed, my lady. Drifts will love it then. . .

 

“There’s a matter I’ve been meaning to talk about,” Jon said. He did not know how to begin, so he furrowed his brow and plowed ahead, “I need to leave.”

 

After hearing his own words, Jon explained, “Not in a bad way! Just something I have to do. Well, I mean to talk about it. With you.”

 

“Does this have anything to do with White Harbor?” asked Lydrea.

 

Surprised, he only nodded.

 

“Daryn said that Uncle Halys was planning something. He overheard him with Ser Wylis and they mentioned you, but that was all my cousin knew.”

 

Jon steadied himself and his horse.

 

“Lord Halys and the Manderlys want to sell the axed timber,” he gestured at the felled wood around them, “in Braavos.”

 

Lydrea looked about at the scattering of fallen trees.

 

Jon continued, “I am supposed to go along.”

 

“For how long would to be away? When would you leave?”

 

“I should be back here in a month, more or less. And I’d leave as soon as the lumber and the ship are ready.”

 

She softly touched her heels to her horse and he inched forward. Lydrea leaned closer and put her hand on Jon’s arm. “Is this important?”

 

“Yes. Bringing back a good sum of coin would give you and I a start.”

 

She smiled at him. “Ser Jon, you need not be so hesitant. I _want_ you to bring your thoughts to me. I’m not going to run if you happen to say a thing like that, even if it upsets me. And this does not.”

 

Jon felt foolish for being worried at all. _What did you expect her to do? Slap you and flee back to Castle Hornwood?_

 

“So we’ll enjoy the time at hand and then I’ll be watching for you.” She grinned at him. “Like some sailor’s wife standing with a candle in the window.”

 

He raised his hand to grasp hers, but she quickly drew it back. Lydrea set her heels and Drifts burst ahead.

 

Jon heard her giggling. He couldn’t help but smile as he wheeled his mare around and chased after her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the readers who've enjoyed and stuck with this story. Your comments and kudos are much appreciated! 
> 
> GRRM owns everything of Ice and of Fire.


	14. Jon - The Narrow Sea

Ser Jon had been married for less than a moon’s turn before he left his keep of flecked, grey stone. Jon assured Lady Lydrea that he would return within two months. Jon’s departure was to coincide with King Robert’s arrival in Winterfell. His father insisted that providing for his wife, in this case, was more pressing than joining his brothers and sisters in entertaining Robert Baratheon, the Lannisters, and the royal retinue.

 

Jon felt that his small household would do well in his absence. He’d left orders for them to follow Lady Lydrea’s commands and all swore to do so. Though, a lack of a proper guard worried Jon. He told Gariss that every man, woman, and child should know how to loose an arrow and hold a spear. His master-at-arms promised to teach the household and that they would practice defending the keep and the bulwarks along the wall.

 

Lady Lydrea and Gariss laughingly insisted to Jon that the holdfast would not fall back into ruin in the short while he would be gone.

 

* * *

 

 

After arriving in White Harbor, Jon met the ship captain in the dockyard. Ser Wylis Manderly settled the terms on Jon’s behalf and swore to Jon that this foreign trader was the most loyal and skilled of the ones who frequented his port. Captain Brox was of height with Jon and thirty years old. His skin was as pale as milk, which was especially unusual for a seafaring man in summer. He wore a loose cotton tunic beneath ill-fitting, borrowed fur. His eyes were a light blue and his face was plain, except for his sharp chin. Around both wrists, he wore wide bronze bracelets, inlaid with black and colorful stones that Jon hadn’t seen before.

 

To Jon’s surprise, Brox did not balk at his intent to bring Ghost on board. To the contrary, he appeared pleased by it. Besides the direwolf, Jon brought his arms and armor, his best leather jerkin, the silver clasp Robb had gifted him, and few other articles of clothing. He even sold the garron he’d rode to White Harbor, for there was neither room nor need for him onboard.

 

Brox pointed out his six ships in the harbor. He captained three, fat-bellied cogs that relied mostly on their sails, two galleys suited for battle at sea, and a much smaller ship, which looked little bigger than a skiff beside the others. Each had a name written in Valyrian at its stern. Looking out from high above the shore, Jon could only distinguish the names of the galleys, the  _Pale Blood_  and the  _Bronze Maiden_.

 

“Ser Jon,” the captain said. “Look to the hulls of both galleys. Do you see that each has a discolored section?” He smirked. “I painted them thusly so any corsair who eyes them is like to think they were wrecked and haphazardly repaired. ‘Too many men and too much fight to be worth those barely seaworthy vessels,’ they shall say. The smallest is a scout craft. My little fleet sails under six first officers, but only one captain.”

 

He introduced Jon to the officers and the men as, “Lord Jon the White Wolf Knight.” Brox later advised Jon that he would need to present a commanding presence to earn the respect of the sailors, but added that a lordly title makes for a good beginning.

 

Jon was shown to the  _Pale Blood_ , the sturdier of the two galleys. In addition to Captain Brox, the ship also had a first officer, a man called Xhar. He was a Summer Islander who shaved his hair into a thin, middle stripe. Long ago he’d marked the backs of his hands and his forearms with tiger stripes, by way of hot brand. When he saw Jon look at them, Xhar explained, “Tattoo is rich, fire is cheap.”

 

Once they set sail, Ghost was not fond of being below deck and Jon couldn’t blame him. The queasiness that he too experienced in the cabin only abated in the open air.

 

The Narrow Sea was calm and they crossed without incident.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon felt smaller than a mouse when they rowed beneath the Titan of Braavos. They glided by the Arsenal, and he studying the passing houses.  _Where is the open space?_ Each home was built of brightly painted stone. To Jon, the tightly situated houses resembled someone attending a feast who had arrived late and elbowed his way into a seat he couldn't quite fit.

 

They landed at a place called Ragman’s Harbor, but only Captain Brox disembarked. Some hours later, he returned on a canal barge with more boats in tow and declared that the Sealord of Braavos had bought their entire haul. The Sealord’s men carried a chest of gold and a chest of silver onto the  _Pale Blood_. Though he knew far more gold lay within Winterfell’s vaults, Jon had never actually seen so much in one place.

 

After half a day of loading the timber onto the barges, Jon found Brox in his cabin. “Now off to White Harbor,” he said lightly. Brox dismissed his cabin boy and asked for a private word.

 

“Lord Jon,” he said. “Sail with me. Sail to my city in the east, through the Summer Sea. You can use your gold to buy rare spices, jewels, silks. We will return and sell them in the great ports of Westeros. On the way, you could profit at each harbor on your voyage. On this trade route, merchants in my city grow richer than even your king. What is eight moon turns, a year even, weighted against a lifetime?”

 

Jon was surprised by this proposition, as he had only expected this to be a one-time arrangement. Extending the voyage wasn’t part of his plans and he told the captain, “I cannot go with you. I must return. To my home. To my wife. We’ve only just been wed. You have my thanks for your offer, but we must return to White Harbor.”

 

“I gave Lord Manderly my word and I will do as you wish, but to err in this way. . . I fear that you may not like where this choice leads, my lord. Yet as you say, we shall cross back the Narrow Sea.”

 

“Explain your meaning, captain.”

 

“You are so young,” he looked at Jon’s face as if seeing his own reflection. “A wife means children, and they can be a boon for any man, yet. . .  they also tether a man to his home. A man so full of youth and life should feel the thrill of adventure before he decides to affix himself to one place.”

 

“A keep, a wife, and if the gods are good, sons and daughters,” Jon answered. “I can be content with such a boon.”

 

“Ah, and you are right, my lord." The captain thought quietly for a moment, and then said, "I had a wife once. I was barely older than you are now. Well, no. She was  _to be_  my wife, but life had another journey for me. . .”

 

Brox, fearsome as he could be with his men, looked like he might cry. Jon put a hand on his shoulder and assured, “I would hear the tale, if you can bear to tell it. You can trust that I’ll not repeat it. Not to the men, or anyone.”

 

“Jon, what is a man’s first duty to his wife?”

 

“To keep her safe,” he replied.

 

“Yes, yes.” The sea captain looked at his feet. “Keeping a wife safe means more than drawing your sword against a man who would do her harm. What can a sword do against hunger? I was not so lucky as to be born of noble blood. The girl I was to marry, and she was so beautiful, realized I had no trade, no gold. When she came of age, she chose another.”

 

He twisted away from Jon.

 

“I do not blame her, Lord Jon. Could any woman respect a husband, such that I would have made? When last I heard, she had given her chosen groom six healthy sons. But,” he paused and raised his eyes at Jon. “I knew then that I had to leave, to find my fortunes on the sea. One day I will return to take a wife, but I will do so with gold enough that she will never fret over the next day’s meal.

 

“Alas, you have your wife already,” Brox said, straightening his posture. “She has made her choice and I am certain that she is an honorable woman who would never leave you. No matter how she might struggle in the years to come. Yes, you are happy and must return to her." He got to his feet and told Jon, "I shall ready the men for White Harbor.”

 

Jon did not think that Lydrea would ever break her marriage vows.  _But would she be miserable? Might she come to rue her choice?_   He was certain that Lydrea would be a loving wife to him, and Ser Jon resolved to be a man deserving of her. He stopped Brox in the doorway and commanded him to set a course to the trade ports of Essos.

 

After giving his decision further thought, he was uncertain. Jon chased after him.

 

“Captain!” he called on deck. Once he caught his breath, Jon asked, “How would I get word to my wife? We’ll have to return to White Harbor first.”

 

“No, no. I have an easy fix. For a few silvers, the Sealord’s steward will get word to Lord Manderly,” Brox offered with a reassuring smile. “He, of course, will make certain that your lady knows of your wise decision.”

 

“But why would you do all this?” Jon asked, uncertain of Brox’s intentions.  _Ser Wylis has confidence in this man. He would not entrust your life to anyone but an honorable man,_  Jon thought.

 

“Ah," replied Brox, "I am in need of coin since I bought my three cogs in White Harbor. This was their first time at sea under my command. Also, I would ask for one third of the gold and silver you earn on our voyage. You will still have much more than those two small chests below deck.”

 

“One third? Too much. One fifth?”

 

“That is a deal,” the captain answered, without further resistance.

 

Brox spent the following day haggling with merchants for many types of trade goods, rations, barrels of fresh water, and strong wine. After telling Brox what to say in the message to Lord Manderly, Jon bought shackles and locks for his chests, though they were all but empty after Brox filled their cargo holds. He also came by an armorer trying to sell him substandard chainmail. Instead, Jon purchased wooden swords and suits of padded armor.

 

Without further delay, Jon and Ghost left Braavos on the evening tide, bound first for Pentos and then other foreign ports.  _Please do not be angry with me when you hear, Lydrea. I am doing this for both of us. When I return, you’ll see the sense of this choice and, hopefully, you’ll be proud of your husband._

 


	15. Jon - A Voyage 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After leaving Braavos, Jon's voyage aboard a trading vessel truly begins.

Jon’s fleet sailed within view of the shore, bearing south towards Pentos. Crossing the Narrow Sea, Jon had been unable to gauge their speed. Measuring their progress against the land, he guessed that with just a moderate crosswind they covered considerably more leagues in a day than a horse could, even while the galleys slowed to accommodate the cogs’ pace. And at night, the ships coasted under quarter sails with a night helmsman and two lookouts who doubled as deckhands.

 

The oarsmen took to Ghost quickly. In their cups, they changed a snake-game for the wolf. They placed a  _treasure_  beneath Ghost, and wagered on whose hand was quick enough to reach under him without being bitten. At first, the seafarers tried a dead mouse, like they'd used with the snake, but Ghost ate it before the game could start. On the second attempt, they tried a knot of rope, and the white direwolf quickly grasped that it was his to guard.

 

* * *

 

More than two weeks passed, and they reached Pentos.

 

Jon stood on the deck of the  _Pale Blood_  in his black leather and dark chainmail, with Ghost at his side. Brox descended the gangplank onto the docks of Pentos. A Pentoshi lord in a white-curtained litter and his attendants were waiting for the captain. Jon couldn't hear the words exchanged, and he doubted that he would have understood the Pentoshi dialect of Valyrian.

 

A hunch-backed old man, either servant or steward, stepped around the litter and whispered something to the lord.

 

They must have liked the proposed terms, because servants came over to the ships and Xhar showed them to the cargo.

 

“Lord Jon,” Brox beckoned. “The magister wishes for a closer look at your direwolf.”

 

Jon looked at Ghost and cautiously led him ashore.  _My wolf is not for sale, no matter the price._  He subtly loosened his sword in its scabbard as he walked to them.

 

Servants and magister alike stared at the novel beast, but none dared reach for him.

 

“Very well, captain,” said the obese lord. He waved his hand, and was wheeled away.

 

The old, bent servant looked deep into Jon’s eyes, then offered a humble bow.

 

“Captain, he didn’t wait for confirmation from his men inspecting the holds,” Jon observed, once the magister and his attendants were out of earshot.

 

“In Pentos, just as in White Harbor, I am a trusted man,” replied Brox. “That magister of Pentos bought  _all_  I had to trade." He grinned as he told Jon, "When I awoke this morning, I knew it would be a pleasant day.”

 

All of the ship’s men unloaded the holds and lined up in a train to carry the goods. One of the oarsmen with a thick ring in his nostril asked Jon if both his skinny arms could bear as much weight as even one of his own.

 

Jon shrugged off his mail and jerkin. “Take these back to my cabin, then you’ll see what my  _skinny_  arms can bear.”

 

Not long after the column began to walk, Jon regretted hoisting the half-cask by himself. Too stubborn to admit defeat, he nudged the barrel of wine from high on his chest, up onto his shoulder.

 

The gates of the magister’s grounds were guarded by plumb, beardless men with spiked helms. Once inside, a long robed servant waved each shipman in the direction he was to carry his goods, with little interest.

 

“Wine,” stated Jon in the Common Tongue. The deckhand behind him translated, and the steward pointed Jon to the main house. He followed the crushed-shell path to the ornately decorated building.

 

A voice abruptly shouted at Jon.

 

“I couldn’t see you! I have a bloody cask on my shoulder,” Jon yelled back.

 

The servant just shouted again in Valyrian and gestured at a door. Whilst his hands balanced the cask on his shoulder, Jon could only stand in front of the door, until the serving man opened it for him.

 

When he saw the dimly lit steps, Ser Jon groaned.

 

Carefully, Jon descended the stairs. He continued around the curve of the stone tunnel, barely able to see in the shadows. The torchlight reflecting off the wall was the only refuge from total darkness. The tunnel opened up into a wine cellar. Jon stumbled, knocking his knee on something in the dark room, but caught himself from falling. He set the cask down.

 

The closest torch was on the far side of the long room, so Jon carefully stepped over barrels and between boxes to get to it. Trying to pull the torch off the wall, Jon dropped it. The pitch caught flame on the floor, but he quickly stomped it out.

 

The only remaining light was further down another hallway, away from the stairs.  _Be more careful with that one. This cellar is as dark as a dungeon._  Jon reached the room and picked up the torch. He saw a spiral of plankwood steps next to the torch’s sconce. Rather than traverse the wine cellar again, Jon shrugged to himself and climbed the nearby stairs.

 

_If that servant thinks to yell at me in Valyrian, he’s like to hear me yell right back in the Common Tongue._

 

At the top, he pushed a thin door and it swung down on a tether, like a drawbridge. Despite what he told himself, Jon was reluctant to be caught wandering about a stranger’s grounds. He grabbed the door’s chain before it landed and eased it down.

 

“. . . buy three ship loads for a glimpse at that boy? Why?” a voice asked.

 

 _Shiploads? Whose shiploads? Ours?_  Jon wondered.

 

“After all we’ve labored for, old friend,” a second voice responded. “This turn is so delicious, mayhaps it’s fate.”

 

 _I knew some scheme was in the making_ , Jon thought to himself.  _The trade was a farce_. He set the torch in rungs on the wall and silently shuffled out of the light. He flattened against an alcove in the airy, white-brick lounge. He couldn't see the two conspiring, but he could hear them well.

 

“I am not so convinced as you.”

 

“I have long held suspicions; who would know his father’s lie better than we?”

 

“I can think of  _one_.” They both laughed at that. One laugh was a heavy rumble and the other a light giggle.

 

“My crux exactly,” the lighter voice said. “When the realm believes something I know to be untrue, my curious nature is roused. I set my little mice to task. An old mouse of mine went and looked for herself. His build, his disposition, how he moves. . .”

 

“If you are right, what then? Do we kill him?”

 

“We  _use_  him. He would be our  _third._ ” The man tittered at his own cleverness.

 

“I still have reservations about our  _second.”_

 

“The prince has assured me that that one will be toothless, and besides, he was necessary for the alliance. . .”

 

Jon heard light steps trail away from him and he could no longer hear well enough to distinguish their words.

 

He wondered if he should follow or find his way out of the expansive home. He peered around the corner, but he heard the voices return and darted back as quickly as he could.

 

“. . . and finally our lady will be at peace.”

 

“Just so. I am like to enjoy your new plan, my friend. Ha! And about the boatman?”

 

“Men like to think themselves clever, respected even. We shall let him. He knows nothing, and we will give him no hint. Mice can find their way on and off ships easily enough, as we both know all too well,” the lighter voice said grimly. “So can gold. We will wait, and we will watch.”

 

They said no more and their footfalls trailed away again. Jon crept in the opposite direction and rounded a corner, watching over his shoulder for the two he’d spied on. Before he could turn and look for a way out, he bumped into someone.

 

Jon caught the girl’s upper arm to stop her from falling.

 

Before he had a moment to look up, Jon felt the point of a blade against his neck.

 

“Excuse me, my lady. I did not intend to. . .” With a guard at their side, two young women stood before him, both older than Jon; one had dull red hair and freckles, but the one he’d bumped into had eyes of dark blue and pale blonde hair, streaked with silver. Her beauty compounded his tension.

 

Jon saw the confusion on her face. “Oh, right. You won’t understand a word of this, but I’m sorry still. Even a wine hauler should know better than to be so clumsy. I would appreciate it if your bodyguard lowered his spear.” Jon pointed at it with both hands. “I do not mean you harm, so please don’t order him to pierce my throat.”

 

The blue eyed girl gradually started chuckling. The freckled one did likewise, though her laughs were silent.

 

_Did they understand me?_

 

The armed watchman withdrew his spear and slightly nodded his spiked helm.

 

“My lady,” Jon said, bowing. Not wishing to wait, he hurried to take his leave of them and searched for a doorway out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM owes everything of Ice and Fire. 
> 
> This chapter took a surprisingly long time before I felt like it fit with the rest of the story. Please let me know what you think of it. The chapter after this one will be up soon.


	16. Jon - A Voyage 2

 

Back out to sea, both captain and crew were hesitant about Jon’s proposed diversion, sparring. The men were convinced they would receive a lashing if they whacked the _Wolf Lord._  Captain Brox was wary of allowing any fighting on his ships. Jon agreed to be the only opponent the men faced, until the captain was satisfied that a ship-wide melee wouldn’t erupt. A poke to the belly proved to be encouragement enough for the oarsmen to accept his challenge. Most of them were accustomed to knife fighting or brawling. Jon faced two and three at a time in the beginning. He remembered his lessons from the Blackfish and taught the men basic strikes and parries. Soon, off-duty men were climbing aboard the _Pale Blood,_ on the few days the officers afforded each of them, to watch, gamble, or fight. Jon even tied layers of rags over the forearms of his padded armor and wrestled with Ghost on occasion.

 

When the ships put in at Myr, the men insisted on buying swords of their own. At a swordsmith, they could only afford the most craggy, pockmarked steel he had. Jon bought whetstones and scouring rags, and after enough effort, most of the sailors could shape satisfactory edges. The men used ropes and rag cloth for swordbelts and sheathes.

 

* * *

 

 

One night, Jon tossed in his bunk, unable to sleep.

 

 _Who were those men in the Pentoshi magister’s manse?_  He wondered. _Was one of the whispering men the fat lord? Who could be the other? His servant? Some spy?_

 

Such thoughts had troubled Jon since they left Pentos. He hadn’t talked to anyone about what he overheard in the magister’s estate.

 

Jon turned over and thought, _They were discussing our ships. They must have been. Does that mean they were speaking of me as ‘the boy,’ or someone else?_

 

 _Perhaps I’m being paranoid. Might be they were plotting over someone else entirely,_ he told himself, but couldn’t make the concern leave his thoughts.

 

He gave up on sleep for the time being and decided to walk out on deck.

 

Jon found Brox and Ghost standing alone beside the ship’s railing. The moonlight was as bright and clear as he’d ever seen it. The splash of waves was the only sound dampening the silence.

 

_Should I mention what I heard in Pentos?_

 

Jon supposed that Brox might be the captain they wanted to let think he was clever. _But they mentioned coin and mice coming aboard. Did that magister buy Brox’s loyalty? If he did, would there be anything in my power to do about it?_

 

“Lord Uynars, have you come just to stare into the dark?” asked Captain Brox. He handed Jon a wineskin. “There is an ancient seafarer’s tale,” he continued. “About an old fisherman who woke at sea on a night so black that he thought he had sunk to the depths below the waves. He jumped from his little boat and swam his arms into the wind. . . until he crashed into the water. The night was so dark, he could not find his boat. He tired and drowned just as the day’s first light peaked over the edge of the world.”

 

Jon passed the skin back to Brox.

 

“How do you sailors think up such cheerful stories? No, captain. I come up to look at the stars, not the darkness over the water.”

 

“Your wolf likes them well enough. He spends half his nights staring up at them, silent and still,” he replied.

 

Jon scratched Ghost’s fur. “He watches them and I find myself dreaming of them.”

 

The two men leaned against the rail, passing the wine between them. After a time, Jon broke their silence, “I’ve heard the men use that name for me, ‘Lord Uynars.’ What does it mean?”

 

Brox laughed. “You don’t speak any Valyrian in your North?”

 

“Once I did, and I suppose I still do. I can read the Valyrian characters on your hulls, _Pale Blood_ , _Dancing Cod,_ _Bronze Maiden-”_

 

Brox’s chuckle cut in. “Bronze _Maiden_? Might be that sounds better, Jon. The word is closer to _Whore._ At best, _Tavern Girl_ or _Wench_.”

 

“Whatever she is,” Jon responded, “I can read it well enough. But the speech of your men? No, I barely grasp one word in five.”

 

“The Valyrian of old is the tongue of high lords and priests. Few common sailors read, so perhaps that was how the lettering kept. But the language of traders is a composite, a mixing, of the scarred cousins of High Valyrian, which are native to ports in Myr, Volantis, Astapor, and others. How sailors speak sounds queer to the merchants and tavern keeps in each city, but close enough for all to understand. Their accent,” he gestured below deck, “is of the sea.”

 

“But not yours,” said Jon.

 

“But not mine,” he agreed.

 

Jon persisted, “But that name the men call me, ‘Uynars,’ what does that mean in the _Tongue of the Sea_?”

 

“Can you not riddle it out?” He laughed. “No? It is the same as what some of the officers call you, ‘ _Lord Wolf,_ ’ they say.”

 

Jon hoped that Brox told him the truth. He was leery of being mocked without his knowing.

 

“Ha! Still you distrust your faithful captain. You do not still your face. Even in the pitch dark, I could guess your thoughts. Under tonight’s moon? I can see it as quick as if you told me. Uynars, you trust me with your life on the sea, leagues from shore. But you are troubled by a name. More scared of ridicule than of death? Go below. You and your uynars could use the sleep.”

 

* * *

 

 

They spent less than a day in Tyrosh and Jon only set foot off the ship to help load and unload cargo.

 

* * *

 

The Step Stones were said to be treacherous, but none of the ships they saw gave chase.  The islands deflected the wind, but the captain was prepared and still made good time. The two galleys towed the cogs, but Brox did not use ropes. He brought on deck four thick, wood poles, studded with iron hooks on either end. To the stern of each galley, the men affixed the poles to strategically placed cleats. “Ropes slack and jerk with each stroke, the poles make two ships into one,” explained the captain. One of the galleys had to pull two cogs in a chain-link, but they still avoided listing in the absence of strong winds.

 

Once through the Step Stones and into the Summer Sea, Brox and his officers steered into open water between each port. In every direction, Jon saw nothing but blue-green sea. Being so far from shore worried Jon, but Brox assured him that it was the safest route.

 

* * *

 

Brox guided them wide of the ruins of Valyria. The ships did not row within a hundred leagues of the Smoking Sea or Slaver’s Bay. Weeks passed before they saw another vessel.

 

* * *

 

A carrack was listing in the breakers. Its sails were mostly burnt and even the mast looked singed. The men on deck waved at the small fleet. They all wore similar dark vests, but looked to be from many different places. A few wore colorful beards and the faces of the others varied from the dark skin of the Summer Isles to light, Andal coloring.

 

He noticed Ghost staring.

 

“Captain, my wolf does not like the smell of them,” hollered Jon.

 

The other galley was the first to reach them. As soon as the _Bronze Wench_ rafted alongside the drifting ship, men poured out of the cabins with knives in both hands and jumped over the rails to the galley. Their shouting rang vividly in Jon’s ears. Xhar, the officer on the _Pale Blood_ , yelled out the strokes for the oarsmen in the hold. Brox signaled for the cogs to follow and ordered every free-handed man to ready himself.

 

Jon ran to his cabin. He knew he did not have time for his plate, so he threw his jerkin over his head and his shirt of chainmail after it. He buckled on his sword belt and slipped on his enameled gauntlets, but did not see his helm.

 

He was back on deck before the _Pale Blood_ reached the other galley. The sailors aboard the other ship were well bloodied, but continued to fight. Jon looked at the men with him on the rail. Ghost was at his side. He saw that most of his comrades held a dagger or one of the crude swords they’d bought months earlier. Jon grinned when he saw that two men had put on training armor and held wooden swords.

 

“Hold fast!” warned Brox, in Valyrian.

 

Just before crashing into the _Bronze Whore_ , the oars retreated into the hull and Brox spun the wheel away from the fight. The ship swung sideways and the rail hit the side of the other galley.

 

Ghost was the first to leap to the other deck and the gory fray. Jon and the others followed a second behind. The direwolf clenched his jaws around a man’s throat and ripped through flesh and muscle.

 

Jon swung his longsword at a man’s back, only to realize that the vests the men wore were fashioned from stiffened leather.

 

He felt a sudden blow to the back of his head.

 

Jon crashed to his knees. For a moment, he thought he was dying. He touched the wound and felt a bump, but no blood. Looking behind, Jon saw Ghost releasing his hold of the attacker’s wrist, while Xhar was pulling the full length of his shortsword out from between the man’s shoulder blades.

 

The dark skinned, black eyed officer then shoved the collapsing man into another pirate’s thrust meant for his stomach. With his left hand he threw his knife into the pirate’s chest and followed it with the point of his shortsword. Crimson blood ran down Xhar’s tiger-striped arms.

 

_He is fearless. He wears no armor but fights as if his skin was impenetrable._

 

Still on his knees, Jon peered about and saw two score of men lying bloody on the sun-stained  deck boards. Some screamed, others moaned and struggled to sit up, yet half or more lay prone in their blood, retchings, and bowel refuse. Most of the dead were his fellows from the first galley, but finally their sheer numbers had overwhelmed the attackers. Only five of the pirates remained on their feet, each weary and surrounded, but unyielding.

 

Ser Jon Whitewolf got to his feet and stepped to aid his comrades still fighting. Shuffling his boots on the worn wood to maintain his stance, Jon circled around to face one of the attackers. He waved the sailors at his sides to step back.

 

_And now to test all those years of practice._

 

The pirate was ragged from fighting, but by the blood on his daggers, the Jon knew the man had killed at least one of the oarsmen sailing under his command.

 

Patiently, Jon steadied himself. He was ready to deflect and counter-attack any strike. He recalled the Blackfish’s words, _With either sword or army, a man is never more vulnerable than after a failed attack._

 

Summoning what strength he had left, the corsair slashed with one blade, then the other. Jon side-stepped the first, then blocked the second, his sword making contact with the fighter’s wrist. That dagger fell to the deck.

 

His other hand cocked, the pirate brought his arm forward. He put the full force of his body into the blow, but it was looping, rather than piercing. Jon swiftly stepped into the man’s body and the pirate’s arm landed, not his steel. Too close for a conventional strike, Jon pulled the hilt of his longsword down with him, his edge cutting deeply into the pirate’s shoulder. He landed on one knee and the pirate staggered for a moment, before grabbing him.

 

One bloody hand clutched at Jon’s neck and the other struggled to bring down a knife. Ser Jon grabbed at the knife hand and they both crashed backwards. His sword fell from his grip.

 

Jon landed on top, but the pirate still had his back. With his arms wrapped around Jon, the corsair pulled the knife closer with both hands. He was stronger than Jon, who was losing the struggle for the dagger. Ser Brynden Tully had never taught Jon this type of fighting and he acted on instinct alone. With the blade almost to his neck, Jon bit into the flesh of the pirate’s hand. He clenched his teeth and jerked his head back and forth, tearing deeper. He tasted his foe’s blood and heard his grunt of pain. He felt the hand go limp and knew the knife had fallen. After one last wrench, Jon let go. He rolled over and saw Xhar point his shortsword at the defeated pirate’s face.

 

Still on the floor, Jon saw another pirate back away from his fight. He took no notice of the young knight just behind him. Jon re-gripped his sword and lunged at the back of a scarred leg. He raked his edge behind the knee, severing skin and tendons. The man wailed and dropped his daggers. The final three others yielded their knives at the bone-rattling shriek.

 

After a brief respite, Jon and Ghost led five men over to the crippled carrack. The captured brigands swore that none were left on their ship, but Brox wanted it searched with caution.

 

Jon kicked the door to the cabins and hold. Unlatched, it swung inward and slammed against the housing. Wishing to make no further sound, Jon shuffled down the step-boards. Three doors surrounded the cramped landing below deck. The left door slide sideways and Jon found only empty rows of cots. He slide the right door in the same manner and saw sleeping bunks with more generous spacing, but no men.

 

The last door would not budge. Jon backed away and two of his sailors battered it in with their shoulders.

 

Inside, nets secured mounds of plunder to the floorboards on one side of the hold. The other side was meant to secure plunder of a different sort.

 

Eight splintery stocks were chained to both the ceiling and the floor. Each had two holes for wrists and a larger one for a neck. Jon gagged at the sight of the two bodies locked into the farthest restraints. An old man and an even older woman hung naked and lifeless. Their skin was a sickly green and they

smelled of seawater and rot.

 

Jon held his breath and entered the hold to unshackle the corpses.

 

* * *

 

“Captain, Uynars,” called an elder oarsman back aboard the _Bronze Wench._ “We gave t’dead, ours and theirs, to t’sea. Goods we found were carried to t’cogs.”

 

He listed a rough tally of what they recovered from the carrack: decorative serving platters, rings, bracelets, weapons that were meant for mantles, and other trinkets.

 

“But what to do with t’four yielders and t’six of they’s who look to heal from their wounds?”

 

“Death,” Jon said. “What else would we do?”

 

“Not wise is it to decide in haste, Lord Jon,” counseled Brox. “We approach Slaver’s Bay. . .”

 

Jon answered without hesitation, “No.”

 

“No captain,” agreed Xhar, approaching with a cog officer at his side. “We lost many. Uynars wise. Chain them over the side. They drink spray from sea, sun roast them through.”

 

He repeated it in Valyrian and his fellow officers echoed his sentiment.

 

“No,” Jon said sharply. “I mean to run each through with my sword. Clean deaths, neither cruel nor merciful.”

 

_I shall wield the sword._

 

“And why not Xhar’s way?” posed Brox. “Death is death.”

 

“Because there’s no honor in cruelly dragging out a man’s end. The point of a sword is justice enough.”

 

“Ah,” said Brox. “And no selling slaves? Too cruel as well? If cruelty troubles you, let us put the question of their fates in _their_ hands. If they think slavery too cruel, as you say, we offer them your sword. Cruelty is different for every man, let them choose.”

 

With most of the ship looking on, Jon thought of his father and the law of the North. Selling men into bondage was forbidden, but rapers and killers were often given the choice of the Wall or the axe. Trading men for coin still nagged at Jon, but he agreed to offer the surviving pirates the choice.

 

Only two of the brigands chose death, both were badly wounded. Brox obliged the first and Jon the second. When he drove his sword through the man’s chest, he thought of the two bodies of the old captives and the horrors they must have endured. To Jon, it felt like justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was happy to see that some readers were especially eager for a new chapter. I think this should count as getting on that pretty quick.


	17. Jon - Coming Ashore in Volantis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POV: Jon  
> Beginning Location: Volantis  
> Words: 1700

Jon’s mouth gaped open at the sight of the Volantine harbor. The enormity of it was staggering. Foreign traders landed on the docks along the western side of the harbor; the eastern wharves were reserved for native sailors. Each side was bigger than the whole of White Harbor or the Port of Pentos. Even Braavos with all of its canals and lesser isles could fit easily into Volantis’s bay.

 

“See Uynars! Dozhoso said this. You listen to Dozhoso!” said Dozhoso. The deckhand claimed to be Pentoshi by birth, but his burnt brown skin made him look more like a Salty Dornishman than anything else. He wore a thick silver ring in one nostril, which made his nose look off-kilter.

 

“I see, Dozhoso. Bigger than I could have imagined.”

 

Brox and Xhar did not want to linger in Volantis, but Jon was curious and they had relented.

 

Dozhoso led Jon, Ghost, and a dozen other shipmen through the port. Jon was amused by their fearsome appearance. Dock workers and merchants alike stepped aside to let them pass. The growing direwolf might have been intimidating enough to avoid any trouble in the narrow streets between warehouses, but Jon wore his chainmail and black, boiled leather with a sword on his left hip and a dagger on his right. His companions wore the scavenged leather cuirass-vests from the pirates. The jagged swords or curved daggers on their hips completed the fierce visage.

 

They climbed the ramp onto the Long Bridge, which spanned the mouth of the harbor. The men passed vendors on both sides selling foods, great beasts, adornments, dresses and tunics, monkeys, talking birds, and iron shackles.

 

Jon bought two sticks of the greasy meat that the others were enjoying and gave the second to Ghost.

 

The following day, Captain Brox brought Jon with him to negotiate the sale of the carrack and freedoms of the remaining sea-bandits. They went to the largest building among the warehouses. Dwarfing everything around it, the monstrosity looked both stunted and over-tall. “The Merchant’s House,” Brox called it. The common room could sit more than Winterfell’s Great Hall. Many of the tables were segregated into recessed alcoves. The captain went alone to the table of an old woman. The pieces of some Essos game were arrayed in front of her.

 

Jon tried to listen, but the noise of a hundred other conversations overwhelmed Brox’s whispers.

 

“Myr will be on the war march soon. Their guilds have hired the Golden Company,” Jon heard at one table.

 

“The Disputed Lands will yet again be disputed,” someone said with a snort.

 

Jon kept his back to the oval table of men speaking the Common Tongue. The wine and ale had loosened their tongues, and Jon had received little news of Westeros since embarking in White Harbor.

 

“A map-maker told me that a _maegi_ brought the Mad King back to life and he took Dragonstone from Stannis Baratheon.”

 

“Mule-shit! How would a map-maker know?”

 

“He saw it for hisself.”

 

“And Dorne,” another chimed in. “Rises in the Mad King’s name. They slayed the Tyrells and po’sned all their dainty roses.”

 

“Ah yes, Ellerd, and my ale tastes better bein’ pissed out than bein’ gulped down. Can I top off your cup?”

 

A chaos of shouts and drunken laughs succeeded in chasing away any intelligible banter from the table. Jon idled back toward Brox and the crook-fingered crone. He saw Brox lean in to whisper to her, then he gave her a wrapped bundle. She nodded and made a reply in a hushed voice.

 

“The bargain is struck,” said Brox as they left the enormous inn. “Do not look at me in such fashion, my lord. She is a broker of sorts in this vile city. Someday it will crumble into the Rhoyne and the sea. In such a place as this, who would a man go to, but a shrew of ill repute?

 

“Cease your fretting,” the captain demanded lightly. “I did not sell your wolf or your man parts, only what we came to sell.”

 

Jon relayed what he heard in the inn, but Brox dismissed it as nothing more than the boozed lies of common sailors. “You are more likely to find an honorable man among corsairs, than a truthful word among such tales,” he said.

 

* * *

 

 

“Uynars!” some on the men shouted when they caught sight of Jon.

 

“We are off to a nightpost I found,” said one of Brox’s officers. “The finest of any that would admit sailors such as us.”

 

Jon would have been proud at the increase in his cognition of Valyrian, if it hadn’t taken such an effort.

 

“ _Nightpost?_ ”

 

“A _friendly tavern_ , a _pillow house_ , a _house of silks-_ ”

 

“He means a _brothel_ , Lord Wolf.”

 

“I must decline. I am a man wed.”

 

Jon heard a chorus of hisses.

 

“Not must _plod_ one!” advised a thick-necked man. Jon could barely grasp the words through his coarse accent, and failed entirely to grasp their meaning.

 

An elder oarsman was slow and deliberate with his words to Jon. “Lord Wolf, if not for the company of the girls, then come for the company of our men. We are in for a raucous night. And the ale! Uynars, this tavern has the darkest darks; it serves a copper-colored beer so delicious that you can’t help but let some run down your chin and shed a tear when you see even a drop fall to the floor! If naught else, you can make certain none of the wenches robs us when we are busy howling for the gods.”

 

The common room looked empty until Jon and a score of half-drunk oarsmen thundered in. The barkeep was a woman of forty years, though comely for her age. She charged each man for a mug and the serving girls took no coin when they poured. They circled around with a flagon in each hand, filling mugs and pitching their wares. Each time one of the men accepted an offer, he followed the girl upstairs and his companions sang some verse in bastardized Valyrian, adding the man’s name to the tune. When he wobbled back down the stairs, the room repeated the cheer.

 

Jon was well into his cups when a golden haired beauty took a seat in his lap. Her locks smelled of a flowery perfume. She pretended not to notice Jon as she tossed her hair in his face and wiggled atop his thighs. Before he realized that he was on his feet, Jon found himself clutching the railing and climbing away from another round of song.

 

A narrow hallway of lacquered wood led to an open door and an empty pallet. He felt her reach into his pocket and pull out a fistful of silver and coppers.

 

“No, no, no,” he demanded. “Much and too much.”

 

She smiled and gave him back most of what she’d taken.

 

The woman hummed cheerfully as she unlaced his breeches. Jon fell back against the door when she reached inside.

 

“No, I. . . sorry. . . can’t,” he pleaded, but she paid his words no mind.

 

“No!” Jon repeated and grabbed her wrists. “Keep the coinage. I must . . .”

 

She shrugged and helped his clumsy hands tie his laces.

 

Jon nearly toppled over when he walked down the stairs. Someone shouted, “Faster than the wind!” 

 

He didn’t stop and left the men to their songs.

 

When Jon reached the wharf and the docked _Pale Blood_ , he found Ghost waiting for him in his cabin. He thudded his back against the wall and let himself slide to the floor.

 

The wolf crept to him and nudged his snout under Jon’s elbow. He stroked Ghost’s fur, but felt chastised by his silent companion.

 

“Lydrea is good to me,” Jon said. “You know I miss her; now and. . . most of the days since I first met her. Even then, when we were both still children. . . You weren’t born then. But I was, and she was.”

 

The rigidity of the floor helped steady Jon’s mind.

 

“My pretty Lydrea, _my_ _wife,_ pushed me to leave Winterfell, to fight against the life which I . . .  was . . . was. . . to be forced into. In the letters she sent when I was still a squire, perhaps I loved her even then? Well, she pushed me.

 

“I can _feel_ your look, wolf.

 

“Most men would be loath to admit such things. Being pushed by a wife. He’d fear letting others thinking him weak. Perhaps I am weak. But, my wife has never guided me to wrong.”

 

Jon pulled one knee to his chest. “Yes, ‘guided’ is a better word for what she did than ‘pushed.’ She _guided_ me.

 

“In her own way, she took me from a life on the Wall. Did I ever tell you about that? Lady Catelyn of House Tully-Stark, of trouts and wolves and snows and rivers, would have sent me away. Someday she would have gotten her wish, I knew it. How much could I ask my father to bear on my behalf? Even so good a man as him. . .

 

“He loved me. You didn’t get to see it, I suppose. He always has, though.”

 

Jon stopped petting Ghost and let his arm hang free. “There is honor in the Night’s Watch. I could have been a ranger. I could have ridden out beyond the Wall with Uncle Benjen, but. . . a man swears off his right to a family. . . He loses the family he has . . . never gets one of his own. . .

 

“And she is just so pretty. Can wolves tell comely women from homely ones? Ghost?”

 

His wolf offered no response and Jon drifted into sleep right there on the floor.

 

The following days were spent haggling, loading and unloading from the ships’ stores, and on minor repairs to the hulls. Once they were finally poised to depart, their holds were mostly filled with food, water, and wine. From the markets of Volantis, Brox bought the provisions, ornate copper-hued armor, and common tools intended for “the only way station between,” according to him. The goods they’d traded away were far more valuable that what they’d purchased, resulting in chests of gold, silver, onyx, and ivory onboard the _Pale Blood_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has commented, Kudos'ed, or just enjoyed this fic. I just noticed that there's a brief run of brief chapters coming up. So they'll be kind of short, but that also means I can get them posted sooner.


	18. Jon - A Way-stop

On the open ocean, distance was distorted. Lacking landmarks, half a hundred leagues looked much the same as oars treading in place. The direction of the ships, for the nonce, was easy enough to read from the arc of the sun during the day and the white-blue eye of the Ice Dragon at night.

 

Captain Brox preferred his carved wood maps, worn and smooth to the touch. He insisted that parchment was too often ruined or lost. He had shown Jon their tack while departing Volantis, where they had back-tracked to sell the captured ship. _And their prisoners_. They took up a new course to sail southwest. Jon grasped the wisdom of a heading that kept them clear of the ruins of Valyria and the Smoking Sea. Yet, he raised the issue of sailing as far south as Brox, Xhar, and the other officers intended.

 

“We not sail at sea for all voyage,” Xhar said, in his heavy accent.

 

“We will stay far away from the slaving cities of the old Ghiscari Empire,” Brox added. “Our galleys mark us as a hard target for corsairs and slavers, but we would do well not to tempt such men at all.”

 

Thus, the fleet of six ships crossed the Summer Sea.

 

For provisions, they landed on the Island of Naath. Xhar, Jon, and Ghost were the only ones to leave the ship. They rowed a dinghy to shore with merely shovels and scythes as weapons.

 

Jon didn’t see a single person, though Xhar told him that they’d landed just outside a city. They trudged through the lushest plants Jon had ever seen. The trees were not as tall as the ones in the North, but the forest was many times more dense. Striped green and yellow leaves, ten feet long, hung overhead.

 

A circle of swept dirt was the first sign of man. Xhar drew a sun in the dirt and then brushed a cut through all but the top sliver. Beside it, they laid the few scythes, shovels, and hand spades they’d brought. The first officer of the _Pale Blood_ led Jon and his wolf back to the row boat. They remained on shore until dusk.

 

Xhar took Jon back to the circle when only the last glow of the sun could be seen above the horizon.

 

The tools were gone and in their place were three baskets of crimson roots, peppers as long as Jon’s arm, and queer, spiked fruit. Xhar’s sun had been swept and a lavishly detailed spiral replaced it. A line was drawn at the bottom edge of the sun this time.

 

Xhar grunted his approval and they returned to the galley.

 

At first light, their ships came ashore with all of the farmer’s tools they’d bought in Volantis.

 

Two children, a boy and a girl, met them at the dirt circle. Their noses were less pronounced than any Jon had seen, and they clothed their copper skin in only linen skirts.

 

The island’s orchards looked more like a jungle than a farm. They found no paths, and without their young guides, they would have been lost among the giant leaves, purple moss, and curtains of vines. The children led the men to a hollowed out tree. Jon ducked his head, stepped through the shadowy passage, and found himself at the edge of a sprawling village. He saw row, upon row of huts; none were more than one story tall, but the thatching of each was intricately woven in unique patterns.

 

“Their only defense is hiding,” explained Brox.

 

Instead of stone walls and staked moats, this city’s borders were made of living trees, vines, and brush. From the inside, Jon could see that branches were interlocked and turned outward so their leaves grew away from the city. Even the growth of the living wall of trees had been steered many years ago so they crossed each other like folded arms.

 

Bargaining with only gestures and the tone of his voice, Brox traded for many baskets of food, though none of it meat, and for permission to fill their water barrels in the city lake.

 

A large river at the far end fed the reservoir lake and drained into two smaller streams on either side, which ran between rows of huts. Jon was marveling at the beauty of such a place when he felt a poke on his leg. He turned to see a shirtless boy gape up at him then scurry back to his laughing friends. Jon understood that game. _But are any of you brave enough to poke at Ghost?_ He smiled at them and continued on.

 

* * *

 

Once they were stocked and back aboard the ships, Jon asked, “But why would they show us the way to their village? Even if we went unarmed, we could always return with men to conquer them.”

 

“Could we, Uynars?” Brox replied. “I would wager my ships against a copper coin that you would wander the damp jungle for months and never find that entrance-tree. But, smaller villages are not so skilled at hiding. Slavers steal men, children, and women from their people. That is why they hide and why they do not trust any man with a weapon.”

 

* * *

 

Months passed without sight of ships or shores. Finally, a shout went up one morning. The early light showed red mountains of rock and sand, and a shining city in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short, I know. Mostly longer ones coming up after it.


	19. Jorah - Loyalties

The bronze inlayed gates of the Qartheen docks towered above him. Slaves rushed into the port reserved only for ships owned by the natives of noble blood or belonging to one of the guilds; they ran beneath one archway into the waterfront and out of another. Both were tall enough that a masted ship might pass unimpeded, if only it could sail on stone.

 

His queen’s arrival was known by all of Qarth by the time the sun set on their first day within the city’s walls. Though he didn’t know who would meet him, Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island did not doubt that the Spider’s man would find him.

 

When he was first encouraged to go to Magister Illyrio’s manse for the Targaryen girl’s wedding, Lord Varys’ agent told him to wait in the center of the largest dockyard or market square as soon after arriving in each new locale as he could. “Someone will find you, do not worry on that,” the Spider’s messenger had assured. These docks were the grandest place of trade in the city and the gates were as close to the center as the Westerosi knight was allowed.

 

“You are Jorah the Andal, no?” a man greeted him in the Common Tongue.

 

The exiled Northman eyed him carefully.

 

This man had dark skin and a shaved head, except for a close cropped, middle stripe. His hands and arms bore striped brands. He wore a salt stained leather vest and a devious smile.

 

“You know me, even if you not know me,” he said and did not wait for a response. “Word was. . .” He sighed in frustration. “Valyrian?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Word was _relayed_ to me from a stranger,” he began again in the muddled Valyrian of the merchants, slavers, and pirates who made their lives on the sea. He laughed. “As is the way of the man who hired us. That pitiful stranger said you had not reported in some time; that was more than a month ago, Andal.”

 

“Even the Spider cannot hide spies in the Red Waste,” Jorah growled. “But I only meet you now so that you will tell him this is the last he will hear from me.”

 

The dark man laughed at him.

 

“What do I know of the Spider’s threats or promises to you, Westerosi? What I _do_ know is that you would not have journeyed across the whole of Essos in his service for nothing. Just imagine me threatening you with whatever the Spider used to scare you, or me teasing that you will never get your hands on what treasure he promised.”

 

Ser Jorah spit on the man’s boots and turned to walk away.

 

He heard another laugh. “Walk away, spill your secrets, what does this matter to me? I have done my part. Remember,” his words began to trail off, “we are two of many. He will send others.”

 

* * *

 

Jorah found Daenerys Targaryen sitting with her dragons, collecting gifts the people presented to her for the chance to glimpse the only three living dragons in the world. He approached her from behind.

 

“ _Khaleesi_ , I found a man in a tavern who just landed in Qarth,” Mormont said over his queen’s bare shoulder. “He brings word from your kingdom.” He beckoned the man forward. Jorah could not say that he liked or trusted this one, but he thought him far less dangerous than the Spider’s man at the gates.

 

Quhuru Mo bowed to her and before he could open his mouth, a shiver ran through Ser Jorah. In an instant, he stepped into the feathered captain and jabbed his sheathed knife into the man’s most tender of areas. He shook his head and the Summer Islander understood the warning well enough.

 

“Mother of Dragons,” he said in Valyrian. “I have just now remembered I must return to my crew. I have told your knight all I know, he can tell you. . . Pray excuse me.”

 

Dany looked back at Ser Jorah. “What a fool. Why follow you through half the city only to turn around the second he arrives.”

 

“Your dragons may have scared him, _khaleesi_.”

 

The next one that Dany’s bloodrider, Jhogo, admitted to treat with her looked like a spirit from Ser Jorah’s past. At his side, stalked the largest wolf that Mormont had ever seen.

 

“Princess,” said the black haired boy. He did not step any closer to her painted chair. “It pleases me to offer you a spool of fine silk.”

 

“You speak the language of Westeros,” she cheerfully exclaimed. “Are you from my country?”

 

“I am from Westeros, aye.”

 

“And the North, if I do not mistake your look,” added Jorah.

 

The boy was the very reflection of the Starks of Winterfell. _Could he one of the sons of Ned Stark?_ _Or might be he was sired by Stark’s older, dead brother. That one had been fond of bedding any woman who’d have him._

 

He nodded and asked, “Are you from there as well?”

 

“Ser Jorah is a Mormont of Bear Island,” said Dany.

 

“Well met, young man. Might Her Grace have your name?”

 

He shied at the question, but still replied, “Ser Jon of House Whitewolf.” The boy must have seen the lack of recognition in the broader knight’s eyes. “I took my own name and arms when I was knighted. I am traveling with a trading fleet to earn enough to keep my wife and home well provided for. . . Your Grace.”

 

“I can see where you found the name!” She laughed.

 

The wolf padded closer to Dany. She shooed away Jhogo when he looked ready to strike the beast. Its red eyes glanced from the Dothraki, to Ser Jorah, then to Dany. She put out her hand to let it sniff her.

 

“Does it have a name?”

 

“I call him Ghost . . . Your Grace.”

 

The animal backed away from her and stared down the dragons.

 

“He is well trained. _Your Grace_ need not fear that he will bite your dragons.”

 

Dany giggled at him. “Ser, tell _him_ to be careful,” she warned in a playful air. “I cannot make the same promise of my creatures and I have never heard of a wolf who could withstand dragonsbreath.”

 

In center of the table, Drogon stood on his hind claws and spread his leathery wings. Jorah smiled at the black dragon’s show of dominance. The wolf made neither a move nor a sound as Drogon hissed at him.

 

Rhaegal crept to the edge, making no such display. The green scaled dragon merely looked at the wolf. He swept his serpentine neck from his right to his left, inspecting the new animal from one angle and then the other.

 

“Your Grace,” said the Northern boy. He walked to Dany’s seat and handed her the silk.

 

As he stepped back again, Jorah saw Viserion’s eyes follow the boy who looked too young to be a ‘Ser’ and no older than sixteen. The third dragon hadn’t so much as moved his footing since _Ser Jon_ had first come before them. He just turned his head slightly to keep both eyes on the boy.

_Is he one of Lord Varys’ spies? Is this whom the Spider’s agent warned of? The Hand of the King is likely his kin. If the boy is here on the business of the Hand or the Spider,_ worried Ser Jorah, _he would know of my reports._ He resolved to tell Dany the captain’s news, then to follow the grey-eyed boy.

 

The two legged and four legged _wolves_ took their leave.

 

The next man briskly strode from his waiting place towards Dany. He was Qartheen, through and through. His pale skin hinted that his blood was at least half noble, though the fraying of his tunic indicated that he was not of the city’s Pure Blood sect.

 

“I must needs tell you what I learned from Quhuru, _khaleesi,_ ” Jorah said in the Common Tongue.

 

He looked at the pale faced man and saw no sign of comprehension.

 

Dany told Jhogo to keep the Qartheen a few feet away and nodded for Mormont to continue.

 

“King Robert is dead.”

 

Her eyebrows arched in shock. “Can you be sure?”

 

“Aye. The captain said more than that, but Robert’s death is the part of which I am sure.”

 

“How did the Usurper die? In a joust? Did a Loyalist slay him?”

 

He shook his head. “As to that, I am only certain that the trader heard wrong.”

 

Unsatisfied, Dany motioned for him to explain.

 

“He said that Ned Stark murdered the Usurper.”

 

The queen let out a high and menacing scoff. “The Usurper, betrayed by one of his own dogs!” She paused. “But why would you not believe that part?”

 

“Lord Stark,” Jorah snorted. “He would never sully his precious honor. Quhuru mentioned that he’d also heard tell that Robert’s brother, Stannis, slit his throat but that is no less impossible.”

 

“Why?” she asked sharply. “The Usurper’s friends and kin have now proven themselves just as treacherous as him.”

 

“I have no love for Ned Stark, but I know him, _khaleesi,”_ he said, trying to hurry in the telling. _How do I explain the Starks?_

 

Ser Jorah remarked on Baratheon instead, “Robert’s brother Stannis is a harsh man. Sympathy is absent from his nature and blind obedience to orders was engrained in him when he was still a boy. When Robert told him to hold Storm’s End, he was ready to let the entire castle starve before yielding.

 

“I met him briefly at a feast in Lannisport after the Greyjoy Rebellion. But, I heard much of him from the men who fought alongside him at sea. He would never move against Robert.”

 

“I shall hear no more talk of the Usurper’s dogs,” she chastised. “The Usurper is dead. That is reason enough to rejoice.”

 

Queen Daenerys gestured for Jhogo to step away from the man of Qarth. In Valyrian, she said, “What handsome bronze bracelets! I have not seen others in this wide style. Come forward, I wish for a closer look.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM owns everything of Ice and Fire. This story is not intended for profit, but for my own enjoyment and that of a bunch of encouraging and incredible readers.
> 
> *Really excited for the start of Season 3. The first season was amazing and stuck so close to the book. The second was more ambitious and some of the changes worked very, very well (Arya staring down Twyin instead of Weese) and some didn't. I'm hoping that Season 3 falls somewhere between the two.*


	20. Jon - A Departing

“That is most unfortunate, Brox,” said Jon. “His Grace’s family has my empathy, but I fail to see why you seem this. . . distraught.”

 

“I am a man who keeps his oaths,” he asserted. “But, I have not been forthcoming with you. In Braavos, I heard that your King made Eddard Stark his Hand.”

 

Brox told him the rest of what he had heard after Jon left Daenerys Targaryen. Yet, the captain’s dishonesty worried him more than the King’s death or the wild accusations aimed at his father and the king’s brother. Ports were filled with meritless tales.

               

Jon recalled the apprehension he’d felt when Brox had first suggested that they stand among to petitioners for a chance to see the last Targaryen and her dragons. Jon had expected towering statures, teeth as long and sharp as swords, and leathery wings as broad as sails. He felt like a silly child when he finally saw them. Maester Luwin taught him the history of the Targaryens’ dragons when he was a boy. A century and a half after Aegon the Conqueror, dragons were no longer giant horrors, but frail novelties no bigger than dogs. Before the Dragon Princess’s three, more than one hundred years had passed since the last living dragons. _After hers die, another hundred years might pass before the next hatches._

 

Now that he had seen her, Jon was no more certain of how to feel about Daenerys Targaryen. She was the daughter of the Mad King, the tyrant ruler who murdered Jon’s grandfather and uncle. Her brother had kidnapped Jon’s aunt and brought war and the fury of Robert Baratheon upon himself. _If she looked more fearsome, mayhaps I would feel differently._ That Daenerys Targaryen was just a small girl, and because justice befell the Targaryens, Jon didn’t hate her. _A father’s sin is not his child’s fault, no matter what the world might think._

 

“So my father will serve as Hand for the King’s eldest son, why are you distressed?”

 

Brox turned from the question.

 

“Uynars. . . we must be well rid of this city and _soon_. I mean to put leagues to our backs by the hundred. I-”

 

“You will tell me why, I command it.”

 

“Boy,” he snorted. “Do not think you _command_ me.”

 

His face softened and he said, “There is a house of sorcerers in Qarth. Devious, blue lipped, mad men. I saw their work as a boy. With potions, they are dangerous. But they are worse at present. Something stirs in this city. Even those of pure blood, the Qartheen elite, tremble.”

 

Brox’s eyes belied none of his usual charm, and gave no sign that he wished for sympathy.

 

“I will return soon,” he announced, as if he barely  recalled Jon’s presence. “Load the goods I send on the _galleys_ only. You will see that none of the men leave our mooring, by the point of your sword if you must. And if any port agent demands a waybill or to inspect my ships, do what you must, but he is not to step aboard.”

 

* * *

 

They shipped off with far fewer men than they’d landed with. Brox sold his two cogs and decided to leave their oarsmen. He assured the remaining men that every deckhand on the two sold ships had received a share of the proceeds and that most of the sailors signed on with the new owner, but Jon was not sure he believed the captain. Brox bought an unmanned galley and distributed oarsmen from the others. They filled every spare inch of the three galleys and the scout-skiff with crates of exotic goods and provisions.

 

The _Pale Blood_ did not slow for a day and a half. When finally the captain allowed the ships to list, the oarsmen slept in their places.

 

Brox would not permit them to dock at any large city. He stretched the rations as thin as he could before landing in fishing villages, outposts, and modestly populated quays. On the front side of the voyage, Brox had turned over nearly all of Jon’s trade goods, and his own, in each the major harbors of Essos. The chest of coins that had so impressed Jon in Braavos was dwarfed by what they had in Qarth. When Jon asked him about why he was not doing the same on the route back, Brox confided that he would never again set foot in any city with warlocks or pyromancers if he could help it.

 

Tales of sorcery seemed to chase them westward; tales of war and treachery seemed to be traveling in the opposite direction. At every small harbor,  they heard wild stories of war in the Free Cities and dire, inconsistent rumors of Westeros. Jon resigned himself to the fact that he would not find out the truth of what was happening in the Seven Kingdoms until he returned to White Harbor.

 

As the days waned on, it seemed as if the seas themselves could feel the tension in the men. No songs reverberated through the holds. All but a few had given up sparing with Jon, and those who did, no longer took the same joy in it. The pace kept up and the mood grew grimmer each passing day. The ships navigated through the Step Stones and finally Xhar besieged Brox that they could take no more. The captain relented and they docked in Pentos.

 

At the anchorage, the crews slept for a full day and when they awoke, their temperament lightened.

 

The oarsmen drank and whored, Brox and the officers traded with the merchants on the wharf, and Jon camped in the corner of a tavern and listened.

 

 _The War of the Five Kings,_ they called it. Jon was reluctant to believe them when the patrons could not even keep the number of kings in their tales to five. But he knew something was wrong when he heard them talk about his family. His father was a high lord and Warden of the North. That men might invent stories about him, King Robert, or other powerful men was to be expected. Talk of Theon Greyjoy conquering the North, of Sansa Stark being set aside by the boy king and held as a hostage against her brother, Robb Stark, disquieted Jon. _Why should men in Pentos even know those names?_

 

He could count the number of words he uttered while crossing the Narrow Sea on one hand.

 

The captain of the port guard personally supervised the inspection of every ship that entered White Harbor. Jon could hear him ordering his customs men to catalog the holds and his footsteps approaching. When Ser Marlon Manderly opened the door to Jon’s cabin, he froze at the sight of Ghost. The look in his eyes was not of fear, but of _recognition_.

 

He told his men that the ship passed its search and dismissed them. Ser Marlon latched the door and hung his lamp on a hook.

 

Jon sat at the foot of his cot and the heavy-set knight paced the cramped quarters.

 

He ignored Jon’s questions until he blurted out, “They are dead, Jon Snow.” He did not still his movement or raise his eyes. “Ser Jon,” he corrected. “They thought you dead as well.”  Marlon Manderly’s voice kept a steady pace as he began recounting horror after horror.

 

“King Robert’s son took Lord Stark’s head, though the vile prince was never truly sired by Robert Baratheon. A bastard born of incest, an abomination that the Kingslayer got on his own twin.

 

“Lady Sansa Stark was a captive of the Lannisters in King’s Landing. She might still be, no one is certain. Fresh word from the capitol told of her forced marriage to the Imp of Casterly Rock. Together, they poisoned Joffrey and all but his kin seem to think it for the better.”

 

His voice shaking, Jon asked, “Do they still have her? Will Sansa be executed?”

 

“The most common tale is that she magicked herself into a wolf, sprouted wings, and flew off. Utter nonsense and probably spread by the Lannisters. I fear that the poor girl is most like still held in the Red Keep.”

 

“And what of my other sister, Arya?”

 

Ser Marlon creased his face, trying to recall what he knew of Jon’s youngest sister. “No word of her has arrived, not even smallfolk fables. None have tried to ransom her to Stark allies or enemies, as far as I know. The girl might be hiding or she might have died, like so many others who never deserved such a fate.

 

“Your brothers. . . First, Theon Greyjoy betrayed King Robb and invaded Winterfell. Once there, he murdered the two little ones. I’m sorry, ser.”

 

 _Bran_. _The eager boy who was half squirrel, spending as much time climbing as he did running._

_Rickon. They baby brother I hardly knew._

 

“But, how can you be certain? Theon wouldn’t do this. No. Never. No matter what else he might have done, I cannot think he’d kill Bran.”

 

Ser Marlon spoke of Theon Turncloak winning Robb’s loyalty only to use it against him. How he was a Greyjoy beneath any other mask he might have worn.

 

“And he displayed their bodies, I was told.”

 

_No. Gods Theon, how did you ever make us think you were anything but a beast, a demon in a boy’s skin. Robb and Bran were the closest things to brothers for you._

 

“I heard that Robb was dead too. Murdered. Is that true?”

 

“Yes, Ser Jon. Slain by Walder Frey at Lord Edmure Tully’s wedding, along with many of the Northern and Riverland lords, and Lady Stark.”

 

After all that he’d heard, Jon vomited into his washbin. Ser Marlon turned his back and let Jon’s stomach settle.

 

He wiped his face on a filthy rag then threw it in the pail.

 

Jon sighed and couldn’t look Manderly in the eye. “Who of my family is left?”

 

Ser Marlon had no answer.

 

Jon was already numb and only half conscious of the remaining news. Even his wife’s family was dead. War raged on and winter crept closer.

 

When Marlon Manderly opened the door to leave, Brox and Xhar were standing outside. The captain moved to shut to door.

 

“Wait,” Jon pleaded, staring at the wall. “He said everyone thought I was dead. . . but. . .”

 

He looked up at Brox’s face and knew, “You never sent any message from Braavos. You needed my gold to fund your trading and you knew I. . .” Jon let out a sigh. Any strength to accuse or fight evaporated.

 

The captain did not deny Jon’s words nor did he ask forgiveness. He bowed his head and told Jon that he would make arrangements for him.

 

Brox sold or bartered the food they’d brought from Pentos.

 

_One last windfall before he takes his share._

 

Dozhoso and another oarsman pulled Jon to his feet. It was the first he’d moved in half a day. Two horsecarts waited. One was laden with foodstuffs, tools, various weapons and articles of armor, and Jon’s chests. The other was a horse-drawn forge. With so many seeking the safety of the city, food was scare in White Harbor. Brox had bartered for the forge with turnips and salted fish. Some other blacksmith and his wife agreed to serve in Jon’s holdfast. They asked if they could bring a pair of orphans who’d followed them to White Harbor and they’d cared for ever since. Jon looked at them, a twin boy and girl, and just shrugged.

 

Xhar counseled Jon to take an old soldier he found into his service, saying that the man would protect him and could even read and write. Jon did not object or listen to the man’s name.

 

Ser Marlon led them through the city to the ramps of the river access. He booked a barge that would take Jon and the others as high up the drainage basin of the White Knife as it could. Jon was deaf to the well-wishes of Brox, Xhar, Dozhoso, and many of the other men with whom he had spent the last year and nine months.

 

Marlon Manderly pulled Jon into an unwelcomed embrace and mentioned something about his cousin, Lord Wyman. He then swore that his house would never forsake its debt or oath to the Starks and for Jon to remember that no matter what he may hear.

 

* * *

 

When they landed in the Sheepshead Hills, Jon drove one cart and the smith drove the other. He guided them across vacant fields and barely slept at night. He was sure to stay off the most traveled roads, but could not have expected that they would encounter no travelers at all. Jon wondered if there was anyone left in the North.

 

When they approached the Kingsroad, Jon followed his first instinct and turned his cart towards Winterfell. He cursed aloud at his own lapse and crossed over the road, rather than follow it.

 

They reached the Wolfswood, then finally his walls. The relief of being home was tempered by the ache from remembering when Robb first showed him the keep. _The last time I saw him was at my wedding. Now I’ll never see him again because of some other, cursed wedding at the Twins._

 

Once through the gate, Gariss rushed to greet him.

 

“I ne’er once believed it, ser!” he cheered. “Knew you’d wash ashore. I’ll tell the cook to prepare something hot.”

 

“I am not hungry,” mumbled Jon. “I need to see. . . I . . . I wish to speak to Lady Lydrea and to not be disturbed.”

 

Gariss looked crestfallen.

 

He told some boy to tend to the five who had arrived with Jon and to the drafthorses. As he was led to the keep, Jon couldn’t help but look up at the night sky. Through the break in the canopy directly above the holdfast, Ser Jon saw only darkness. _No stars_ , he thought.

 

The former Winterfell huntsman and guard lit the candles in Jon’s chambers. The thin layer of dust he kicked up could be seen in the flickering light.

 

Jon hadn’t thought that anything could pierce through his numbness, but worry over what Gariss was about to say twisted in his gut.

 

He did not ask the question, _couldn’t_ ask the question. Yet, the guard who’d know Jon since he was a little boy running about Winterfell with his brother answered it nonetheless.

 

“One night. . . Lady Lydrea was gone,” Gariss said. “No scream, no word, no nothing. That horse she loved so dear, gone too.”

 

The last part buoyed Jon’s hope. _But to where would she run?_

 

Gariss saw that hope on Jon’s face and snuffed it out, though doing so made him look pained, “Weeks later the horse found its way back. . . that was only some days ago. . . he was riderless. His back and saddle were thick with dried blood. And was not the horse’s.”

 

Still, Gariss lingered. Jon steeled himself and asked, “What more?”

 

“No, Ser Jon. Nothing more. I will leave you for the night.”

 

Jon spent the next few days going through the motions of his duty to his meager household in a fog. He looked over the winter-stores. He locked away the chests of silver and gold in the hidden vault Maester Luwin had cleverly devised in the basement of the keep. _I might as well throw the chests in the sea for all they’re worth to me._ He barely gulped down more than a few mouthfuls each day. Daily tasks could neither distract him from his grief, nor help him to face it. Even Ghost kept his distance.

 

On a cold night, he awoke shivering. He flinted a candle and crossed his bedroom to Lydrea’s cabinet. In the few days since returning, Ser Jon hadn’t so much as touched her belongings. Fumbling through her clothes, he looked for an extra fur or blanket. He pushed aside her knitting needles and the blood in his veins went cold.

 

He set the candle saucer on the stone floor and tenderly unfolded the wool with both hands. _A half-sewn tunic for a babe._

 

Jon’s hands were shaking when he pounded on Gariss’s door.

 

“M’lord?”

 

Jon held up what he had found.

 

“We. . . I. . .” Gariss looked ashamed. “I thought we’d taken out any sign. I thought that if ever you did return, losing a wife’d be pain enough. But losing a daughter too. . .”

 

Jon backed away without uttering a word. He felt as if he was watching from outside his body, unable to exert any control over his movements. He found a rope and returned to his bedroom. He tied one end to his bed and knotted the other around his neck. Jon threw open a window and climbed up on the sill.

 

He wept for his father and the mother he had never known, for his brothers and his sisters, for his wife and . . . his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: 
> 
> As I was posting this one, I saw that it was April 1st and couldn't resist saying that this was the last chapter. That this was how the story ended. Everything in the chapter is meant to be serious, just not that this will be the last one.


	21. Jon - A Departing 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important Note:
> 
> I realize now that even though I _thought_ plenty about the traveling timeframe, I didn’t do enough _writing_ about it. I used Ser Mountain Goat’s amazing [speculative map](http://www.sermountaingoat.co.uk/map/), Errand Bard’s amazingly thorough [ calendar of events](http://asoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/topic/31411-global-timeline/) from AGOT through AFFC, and this U of Montreal random and excellent [ guide to early ships](http://www.iro.umontreal.ca/~vaucher/Genealogy/Documents/Asia/asiaShips.html) making the Europe to Asia traderun. 
> 
> On the trip from White Harbor to Qarth, they cover about 10,500 miles in 13 months. This is while being encumbered by their cogs, taking the time to sail out of sight of the shoreline, and being fairly quick at each stop. On the trip back, they ditch the cogs and row harder, and thus they shave 5 months off their traveling time, so that leg takes 8 months. In all, to Qarth and back takes 21 months, or a year and 9 months.
> 
> So for this chapter, in particular, remember that it’s been more than 8 months since Jon was in Qarth.

* * *

Ghost was suddenly agitated. He had been so calm, so resigned all the while Jon sat on the ledge, even when he’d leaned his head out. But now, for some reason, the wolf fretted animatedly.

 

Then Jon felt it: a burning from deep in his chest. He tightened his noose, as if to reassure himself that he was brave enough to make his own end. But, the ignited ache grew stronger. It spread down his arms, all the way to the tips of his fingers. Jon had to look at his hands to be sure that they were not ablaze.

 

A white shadow flew by him, so fast he thought he’d imagined it. Then again. The _spectre_ was circling him. _Even the dead know I am on my way._ Jon lifted both of his arms and steadied himself for the leap. Faster than he could understand, Jon fell.

 

His back pounded against stone.

 

_Not the outside of the keep . . . the floor._

 

He groaned. While still on his back, Jon realized he had crashed inward. Something had barreled into him, hurling him back into the bedroom.

 

Tucking his chin, Jon saw it.

 

 _Dragon_.

 

It rolled off him and its golden eyes reflected the candlelight as it stared back. It was covered in milk-white scales. On its head, the dull nubs of four rear-pointing horns poked out. Two from crest at the back of its head and two more protruding from the back edge of its jaw on either side. All the color of gold and glimmering in the candlelight. From the back of its head, bone ridges, as gold as the horns, trailed down its neck.

 

“I’ve seen you before,” Jon said, the realization shaking him. “ _I know you, dragon_. Much bigger, but still I know you.”

 

The white beast crawled forward. A single claw on each winged forelimb scraped across the stone. The dragon walked around him, inspecting Jon as he did likewise. Though suited for flight, the dragon was so very unlike a bird. It had shining black teeth in place of a beak, scales in place of feathers, and its head swiveled on a long, sinuous neck.

 

Jon reached out for it. Beneath the touch of his fingers, the scales radiated heat. At the same moment, he felt a rage unlike any he’d ever known. Startled, he drew back his hand.

 

Ghost was more concerned with the dragon’s smell. He prodded with his snout; at the wings, under its belly, and at the dragon’s nose, which even Jon could tell smelled of smoke.

 

“Are you here to kill me? End my misery in a beautiful flame?”

 

The dragon did not answer.

 

It crawled around Ghost and sat on next to him on its hind legs, much the same as the direwolf did. With its long neck, the dragon sat taller, but Ghost far outweighed him. They both just stared at Jon.

 

Ser Jon tugged the rope over his head and set it aside. Looking at the two strangely similar creatures, he felt his despair _change._ First, he felt the impulse to run, to be away from that room as quickly as he was able, to the woods, to anywhere. But another desire crept to the forefront of his mind: rage. Jon knew he could never win back the lives lost.

 

_But I can avenge them._

 

The idea felt so right, he wondered why it had not been his very first reaction to Ser Marlon Manderly’s grisly news.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, the dragon was gone, but Jon’s determination wasn’t. At breakfast, he ate in a frenzy, as if he hadn’t in days; which was nearly true. Sitting still, even to eat was a struggle for Jon. He wanted to be off, to take action, any action. He resisted fleeing the table until he had a chance to see Gariss, knowing how cruel fate had turned when last he failed to give word his leave. He named the master-at-arms as his castellan, though the change in title meant little change in duty. Xhar’s old soldier, Pate the Pikeman, overheard them and offered to accompany Jon wherever he headed. But, he refused the barrel chested man.

 

“I will ride to the only kin left to me.”

 

Pate was thoroughly confused, but Gariss understood his destination instantly.

 

* * *

 

Ser Jon rode north with Ghost at his side. They followed the Kingsroad, but stayed off of it as much as they could, to avoid other travelers. The nights were cold in his cramped shelter and after the first three days, his bedroll was damp. Getting fires started was difficult in the autumn snows, but Jon was able to do so each night he made camp. After twelve days, he saw the blue-grey end of the world against the horizon.

 

 When Jon reached Castle Black, the several men of the Watch stopped and stared. Jon supposed that they were simply concerned about the huge direwolf at his side. _Why would I care what they think?_

 

Jon desperately hoped that Benjen wasn’t on a ranging.

 

A grey haired, pale faced man had been instructing some of the younger men of the Night’s Watch in padded armor. One of them, no older than Jon, flung his helm to the dirt.

 

“Who ‘n the Seven Hells is you supposed to be?”

 

“Put your bucket on, you slimy git! Back to your training. If I have to put that helm back on you, I’ll use it as a shit pot first!”

 

The grey haired man took a long look at him, assessing something Jon didn’t understand. After a moment, he said, “The Lord Commander is in his chambers. That tower there, up the stairs and ask the guard at the third landing.”

 

A serving man admitted Jon into the Lord Commander’s solar and Ghost followed him in.

 

“Lord Commander?”

 

_Uncle Benjen?_

 

The dark haired man looked up from a chair by the hearth. He appeared weary and pained and the sight of his nephew did nothing to change that.

 

“Leave us,” he told the steward. “You look tired and frost-bitten. Here, my boy, sit. Take a pull of this ale.”

 

Once Jon was seated and they were alone, Benjen Stark relaxed.

 

“I never thought to see you again, Jon. I expected that you were lost along with all my other nephews. It’s good to see you alive and as well as any man can be in these times.”

 

Jon had dozens, if not hundreds of questions: _What happened? How did all of this misery come to pass? What can be done?_ He was unsure of how to begin. Trying to keep worry from his voice, Jon asked, “Lord Commander Stark, is it now, uncle?”

 

“Aye. Though, I wouldn’t have chosen to inherit the title in the way I did. But all the same, here I am.

 

Ghost padded around Benjen’s back, sniffing at his cloak.

 

“On my first ranging since returning from Winterfell - when Ned feasted King Robert and those thrice damned Lannisters - my ranging party, small as it was, rode out beyond the Wall. We nearly rode into the Weeping Man’s scouts. He’s a vile wildling commander of sorts. On occasion, he’s fond of cleaving the heads off our men, cutting out their eyes, and leaving the heads where he knows we’ll find them. No one knows if he takes the head or the eyes first. As it happened, the scouts didn’t see us anymore than we saw them, at first. If we’d set out half a day later, we’d likely have rode straight into the heart of the Weeper’s raiders.

 

“I lost five of my brothers killing the wildlings, the last two of them died from their arrow wounds on the ride back. My injured garron collapsed leagues from Castle Black. All said, a ranging that I expected to keep me beyond the Wall for no more than a fortnight, took near on three weeks. I thanked the gods when I saw the gate. Thought my luck had changed for the better.”

 

Benjen Stark took off his gloves and rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them.

 

“Upon my return, Jon, the brothers swore that the two dead men I left on my ride back had arrived at the gate some days ahead of me, dead men I remind you. The entire castle agrees that the pair came back to life as wights that night. They slayed Lord Commander Mormont as he slept and eight other brothers before they were hacked apart, limb to limb. Gods, those who saw it say that the rotting bodies just kept after them. Headless, both still staggered blindly and attacked. Arms severed from shoulders, the arms alone Jon, crawled across the ground searching for purchase, for anything they could grab. The men piled the still moving parts in the yard and set them alight. What was left of the flesh burned like wildfire, they say.”

 

His voice was hoarse and his expression grim. “The story sounds mad, but I trust the word of the men who told it. The Others are out there, Jon.”

 

Benjen reached over and took back his horn of ale from Jon. He refilled it from his flagon and emptied it down his gullet. He smiled bitterly back at the fire. “In the nine hundred, ninety-seven choosings before, I doubt any were easier than mine. Both Pyke at Eastwatch and Ser Denys at Shadow Tower would sooner cast buttons for the King Beyond the Wall, than see each other in command. _Lord Commander Benjen Stark_ ,” he said joylessly. “Received every vote, save the four for the cook.”

 

Benjen finally looked away from the fire. He asked, “But that is not the ghost story for which you came, is it? We’ve got ghosts aplenty, you and I, even south of the Wall.”

 

Jon took a breath, then said, “When I left for White Harbor. . . Uncle, what. . .what happened?”

 

“The Wall is the last to know when it comes to tidings of the realm, ill or otherwise. Here is what I know: first, something happened to Bran, a fall I suppose, during King Robert’s visit.

 

“Then the King rode south with Ned as his new Hand, and with Arya and Sansa. An assassin came for Bran. Lady Stark and the boy’s wolf killed him. As to whom the catspaw belonged, your guess is as likely as mine.”

 

Shocked, Jon asked, “Lady Stark? Had a hand in killing a hired blade?” _The wolves were little more than pups when I left._

 

“A hired blade who sought to kill her son. Mothers can be fierce in protecting their pups. What happened next is uncertain, but Lady Catelyn or her sister kidnapped the Lannister Imp. The Kingslayer killed Ned’s men and wounded Ned in revenge. Or those events may have occurred in the reverse, I cannot be sure. It was all for naught anyways, because the Imp escaped on his own.

 

“King Robert died at the point of a boar’s tusk. Prince Joffrey took your father’s head. If Stannis Baratheon is to be believed, Ned found out that the royal children were sired by the queen’s twin and Ned tried to pass the throne to the king’s brother. The truth of it, bugger me to an early grave if you can sort it out.”

 

_If Father was going to hand the throne to Stannis Baratheon, he  must have been sure._

 

Benjen rubbed his eyes, then ran his fingers through his hair. “As to what happened next? War happened. The War of the Five Kings, they call it. Robb’s bannermen named him the King in the North and he fought bravely. You’d be proud of him, Jon.”

 

His uncle truly smiled for the first time. “Tywin-fucking-Lannister, the old gold shitter himself, was running scared.

 

“That was until the Freys and Boltons murdered Robb, his mother, and most of his army at Edmure Tully’s wedding. I heard some business over a broken betrothal played a part, but it ends the same. Ned is dead, Lady Catelyn dead, Robb dead, Sansa is held by the Lannisters and Arya might be as well. . .or . . .”

 

Jon knew what he held back, _Or dead._

 

“But you don’t know about her, not for certain?” he asked desperately.

 

Benjen shook his head.

 

_Arya might still be alive._

 

“And what of my younger brothers? I’ve heard terrible things, things that cannot be true. Might it be they still live?”

 

“Jon, that bite tastes as bitter as the rest. The Greyjoy ward betrayed Robb. He led the Iron Islands into the unguarded North. Butchered a crippled Bran and little Rickon, Theon Greyjoy did.” Benjen spit out the after-taste of that name on his floor. “He burned Winterfell and raided half the North. The rest bent the knee to the skin flayers.”

 

Jon slumped in his seat and let the silence linger. He’d known most of what Benjen told him already, but it wounded him anew. _What did you expect him to say?_ Jon cursed himself for hoping that his uncle would have something more hopeful to tell him.

 

“Uncle, my wife is dead, along with all of House Hornwood. Did you hear of how?”

 

Benjen shook his head.

 

“Anything at all?”

 

“No, Jon. I know nothing of what happened to her.”

 

 _What do I do?_ _Would can I possibly do?_

 

“Uncle? What will I do?”

 

“Your life is too like mine. Ned and I wished for you to never know our pain. A sister held hostage in the South by a reckless prince. Losing a father and a brother to a mad king. . . Your father-“ Benjen gritted his teeth. He looked as close to tears as a Stark of Winterfell ever did. He said, “Do not fall prey to the ghosts of your past. No good can come of it, you must remember that. Do better than I.”

 

 _Do better than you? What do you mean by that?_ Jon did not give voice to his questions.

 

“All that matters now, all you can do is save your sister. If she and Arya still live, think of nothing else. Whatever deal you have to swallow from those cursed Lannisters, you make it. If you are given a chance and you do anything less, you’ll never forgive yourself. You can’t hope to defeat the Iron Throne. Taking the black or bringing your sister with you into exile is most like all you can hope for. Winterfell has fallen. You and Sansa. . . I pray Arya as well . . . you three are all that remains of the Stark line.”

 

“Not us _three,_ us _four._ Come with me, uncle. I need your help. Forget the Wall.”

 

“The Night’s Watch takes no part.”

 

“How can you say that?! Even after everything that has happened?” Jon shouted, gripping the arms of his chair.

 

“I hold to my oath. I said the words, Jon.”

 

“You said the words? What words? What do words mean against the life of your brother? Your family?”

 

Jon couldn’t understand this coldness. His uncle had always been so kind to his nephews and nieces. He seemed a different person in this place. _How could he not care?_

 

“My place is here, Jon. Now more than ever. In all the war, thousands of men were taken prisoner. Not one, _not one,_ was sent to the Watch. The White Walkers are stalking in the night. Mance Rayder is amassing a wildling army like the Watch has never seen. Of all the kings in Westeros, not one has answered our call.”

 

He sighed. “Jon, you are my blood. If you and your sisters, or even just you, are safe, Ned can rest with at least a sliver of peace. And, in a week, a year, or long after, so too will I.”

 

“I should never have left,” Jon admitted. He had thought those words countless times on his ride to Castle Black. _If I hadn’t gone, would Robb still live? Or Bran and Rickon?_

 

“No,” said Benjen. Jon could hear a growl in his voice. “I will not allow you to do that to yourself. It will eat away at you, if you let it. Jon, you did not do this. Many are to blame, but not you.”

 

He kicked at his fire and then added another log, laying it crossways on top.

 

Benjen didn’t look at Jon when he resumed, “The fault lies with me. It has since before you were born. I am sorry Jon, to you most of all.”

 

Jon couldn’t understand what that could possibly mean. He sat and waited.

 

“Lyanna’s kidnapping was my fault. That and the rest. All of it. . . mine own doing.

 

“At that damned tourney at Harrenhal, the one Lord Whent was so proud of. . . I was just a boy, yet still I shouldn’t have been so blind. Lya aided a little crannogman from House Reed when three squires accosted him. She thought it a splendid idea to ride against their knights to regain some honor for her friend. Reed insisted against it, but I couldn’t have been more amused. I pilfered scraps of armor for her from unattended pavilions.

 

“Lya was an exceptional rider. But she was young and lithe, so we had to buckle her lance to her arm to be sure that she’d be able to keep hold of it against men grown.

 

“As a mystery knight, she won all three tilts. When they came round to ransom back their armor, I thought she’d reveal herself for certain. In the most mannish voice she could muster, she told them, ‘Teach your squires honor, that shall be ransom enough."

 

Ghost rose from his place by the fire. Silently, he walked to Benjen and sat by his chair. He pushed his muzzle against the man’s arm until the Lord Commander scratched behind his ears.

 

“Anyways, Prince Rhaegar was sent to find the mystery knight by the king. To burn the jouster, no doubt. Lya disappeared and Rhaegar came back with only her shield. He approached me, though. Asked me which flowers she liked, of all things. I knew this would lead to trouble, but I thought it would be like a game, like a jape at my sister’s expense. Where he found the blue roses for her crown, I’ll never know, but Rhaegar won the tourney on the following day and named Lya the Queen of Love and Beauty, bypassing his own wife.

 

“Even with the worry in Ned’s eyes and the anger in Brandon’s, I still thought this was no more than just some jest. I could barely contain my urge to say that I’d helped. You know, the way young boys are when holding back a secret.”

 

Benjen groaned inwardly and shut his eyes. “If my involvement had stopped there, all would have been different. After the tourney, Ned left with Lord Arryn and Robert Baratheon. Brandon was off somewhere else, as he was like to do. Lya and I went home. And then, Rhaegar Targaryen came to Winterfell.

 

“He snuck me a note, Jon. Thinking it another game, I helped him enter the castle walls, and I hid a blue rose on Lyanna’s bed for him. Then, I waited. I waited and waited for my chance to laugh. When your grandfather found me, the look on his face chased away any humor. He told me that Lyanna had been kidnapped. Afraid and ashamed, I couldn’t even bring myself to tell him who’d done it.

 

“Brandon and his friends went after Rhaegar. Who told them that it was in fact the prince who stole her, I’ll never know. He went after Lyanna and died for it.

 

“Ned only spoke of what happened to him once. In the godswood after the war, he could barely bring himself to speak of it, his words clipped and disorganized, but I understood well enough. He’d been in King’s Landing with Jon Arryn, on some business of the Vale. There, he sought out the girl he’d fallen for at that damned tourney, Ashara Dayne. You’ve heard her name, I gather.”

 

Jon nodded. He could guess where this story was going. As badly as he wanted to know the truth, he wondered if it even mattered anymore. _The bastard of a lord’s daughter or of a tavern girl, do I still care? If my father is dead, why should I?_

 

“She was the most beautiful woman at Lord Whent’s feast. Ned only danced with her after Brandon’s urging. Brandon danced with her later, but it was Ned who loved her. He loved her as only a silly boy of seven-and-ten can. In King’s Landing, he found her. Ned somehow won her heart and she agreed to be his wife. . .

 

“She was your mother, Jon.”

 

Jon thought, _Ashara Dayne. My mother. The woman who’d thrown herself into the sea._ “I’d heard rumors.”

 

“Wonder no more. I am so sorry, Jon. If I hadn’t admitted bloody Rhaegar Targaryen, Brandon would have lived and married Catelyn Tully. You would’ve been Jon Stark, a trueborn son, living in the Eyrie or Winterfell, Starfall mayhaps, with both of your parents.”

 

Jon couldn’t hold back his questions, “But why? Why did he leave her to birth a . . . a bastard? He could have told Lord Tully he was already betrothed. Lady Catelyn could have married you, or someone else.”

 

“Because _Lord Tully_ wanted his daughters as the ladies of Winterfell and the Vale. He would accept nothing less. A betrothal is not sealed without the consent of the bride’s father and Ned and Ashara had yet to speak to Lord Dayne. Your father thought it was the only way he could save Lyanna. What would you have done in his place? Could you have left Sansa or Arya to be. . . Could you have left either to Rhaegar?”

 

_Would I have abandoned Lydrea if it was the only chance I had to save Arya? It matters not. Father’s sacrifice did no good for his sister and I no longer have a wife to set aside._

 

“Finally, your father came back a broken man. So filled with regret that you’d never have thought his side had been the victors. Father, Brandon, Lya, and his Ashara, all dead. That was when he told me all I just told you. He could barely get the words out and if I hadn’t known him as well as I did, I couldn’t have made sense of them. When he finished, I told him I was taking the black. I wasn’t as brave as your father. I couldn’t begin to explain to him why I was leaving. I had enough reasons for my grief, so I let Ned have his pick of them and assume whatever he liked. And still I serve out that sentence.”

 

 _Ashara Dayne_ , he told himself.

 

Only a moment later did he realize he’d said her name aloud. _I’ve heard her name, but never before uttered it, not even in a whisper._

 

The two men sat in silence. They looked the part of one man at different stages of his life. Jon tried to focus on his future, rather than a past he was helpless to fix. _I’ll succeed where father failed._ He wondered how he could even take the first step towards freeing his sister. _And finding the other._

_What if I can’t?_

 

He wondered what it must have been like for Benjen these past two years. Jon wasn’t sure if he hated or respected the man for remaining at his post despite the downfall of his House. 

 

* * *

 

After leaving Castle Black, he returned to his holdfast only briefly. Pate the Pikeman encouraged Jon to stay, to wait at least until the turmoil in the lands settled a bit more. However, Gariss understood. He wished Jon a “bloody ride forth, and a clean ride back.”

Jon filled a pack with his armor, supplies, and coin. Rather than take his black mare, he thought it fitting to mount Lydrea’s trained-up palfrey. Jon doubted the horse had ever seen a battle, _except for one attack_ , but Drifts was stronger and much swifter than the mare.

Jon rode south, but avoided the Kingsroad. He and Ghost stayed to the forests and hills through the Barrowlands. Only one causeway cut through the bogs of the Neck so after a fortnight of forest trails, Jon was forced to join his path with the Kingsroad.

Only a league north of Moat Cailin, he encountered three riders at a roadside camp.

“Heading southways, stranger?” one of them asked.

“Best not go that way, friend,” another counseled. “Just came from the Moat. ‘S still held by Ironborn cunts.”

They told Jon about a village of fishermen on the Saltspear, saying that they intended to hire one to take them across. Jon thanked them and agreed to share the road.

The riders talked to Jon about their mundane travels at length. When they made camp that night, one of them asked, “So your wolf. . . biggest one ‘a them I ever saw.”

Jon scoffed. “That he is. Few folks wait so long before asking about him.”

Ser Jon shared pieces of his travels across the Narrow Sea, claiming to be a hedge knight. “And bugger me if the war hasn’t fouled up any untroublesome employ a hired sword might hope for. Now, any lord with a need for me, is like to send me into battle the following morn. I should have never agreed to post as a guard on that galley.”

The three told him what little they knew of the goings on of the realm. According to them, the war was largely over. In the Riverlands, only Riverrun and Raventree Hall remained in rebellion to the Iron Throne, but both were under siege. Stannis Baratheon continued his lost cause in the Crownlands and the Narrow Sea. They were uncertain of how the war continued in the North. Between the Greyjoys and the Boltons, Jon didn’t much care to hear who held which castle.

_Damn both their Houses to the deepest of hells._

Four days later, they reached the shore. He did not see any village, but soon enough Jon spotted a fishing boat just off in the water. They whistled at the man, he agreed to paddle them and their horses across, one by one.

Jon, Ghost, and Drifts were the last to cross. He parted with the wandering trio feeling a touch reassured that not every man he’d meet would be a thief or a murderer. All through that day and most of the night, Jon continued into the thick forests which laid east of Flint’s Finger and west of the Neck.


	22. Jon - Alone on the Road

 

Ser Jon Whitewolf knelt at the edge of the steeply sloping hill. He saw two castle towers and the bridge between.

 

 _I will make them bleed,_ he swore.

 

He could see dozens of blue-cloaked men on the crenelations. One hundred or more riders waited for the guards to lower the gate. Jon couldn’t think of any way he might sneak inside. _Maybe the river might. . ._

 

Ghost pulled at his cloak.

 

“I know,” he said. “But we will return.”

 

Turning away from Walder Frey’s castle, Jon swung his leg over Drifts and continued on in the hills west of the Green Fork.

 

* * *

 

On one clearer day, he thought he saw the white dragon circling high above. At that height and against the clouds, it could have easily been a vulture or an eagle.

 

For Jon and Ghost, hunting was an easy task, on the occasions when game could be found. Whenever the direwolf smelled prey, Jon would ride wide around its path with little regard for the noise he made. Ghost chased the scent as he quietly ran through woods. Jon would try to scare the deer, wild goat, or one of the flightless rails of the Riverlands into turning back to Ghost.

 

Well away from the Mallister castle, Jon skirted through grounds sworn to Seagard easily enough. Who held Seagard and to whom they owed their allegiance, Jon never discovered.

 

His horse trudged on muddy, deserted roads and passed a village that Jon thought like to be Hag’s Mire or Sevenstreams.

 

Thinking back to his time as a squire, Jon couldn’t help but begrudge himself for not spending enough time learning the lay of the Riverlands. He knew the forest he encountered was called the Whispering Wood, but little about the terrain.

 

When finally he was within a day’s ride from Riverrun, Ser Jon recognized where he was.

 

He hobbled Drifts in the wood and out of sight, and set Ghost to guard him. Jon finished the remaining ground on foot. Dusk was falling when the castle came into view.

 

Three camps surrounded the castle. The crimson pavilions of the Lannister host held the southwestern abutment. The banners on the southeastern side was less obvious from afar, but no less infuriating.

_Freys and other turncloak riverlords_. _And, they lay siege to their liege lord’s castle after betraying their king. After betraying Robb._

 

Jon approached the northern bank of the siege, which was a mix of Frey, Lannister, and any number of other banners. Jon supposed that some of which might even belong to small companies of sellswords, hedge knights, and free riders.

 

The difference in discipline between the platoons he came upon was obvious. The Lannister men in the north camp stuck close to the boom across the Red Fork. Most were either asleep or on patrol. The Freys were awake, drunk and _whoring_ ; meanwhile, the confluence of sellswords and hedge knights was awake, drunk, and _brawling_.

 

Even in such surroundings, Jon would likely stand out. His clothes and armor were too fine to be a free rider’s and too soiled to belong to a knight sworn to a noble House. He crept among the tents and bonfires.

 

 _To be too careful, is to look suspect_ , Jon reminded himself. He straightened his posture and attempted to look as if he belonged.

 

Jon took a wine skin from a soldier who’d passed out in the mud. It was empty, but he still put it to his lips whenever someone passed too close.

 

“Hey! You, boy!” He heard the call behind his back. “Yes, you! The dumbshit in black.”

 

Jon hesitated. _Could I run? Might I make it back to the cover of the wood?_ He knew fighting his way out of the camp would mean trying to kill eight hundred or so men and being chased down by a thousand more from the other embankments.

 

He turned to face the voice.

 

“Who d’ yous think yous is?” a Frey man asked accusingly.

 

Jon did not respond.

 

“Yous a no good slouch, that’s who! Get to the baggage train and fetch yous betters some wine!”

 

Jon nodded and turned away. He felt a hand grab the back of his collar. Jon’s hand instantly went to the hilt of his sword.

 

“Not that way, you dumb git! The _Frey_ carts,” he slurred and gave Jon a swift boot to his arse.

 

Relieved, he started to his left, but doubled back through the free riders and into the Lannister assembly. He bobbed between the shelters until he found a small one with the snores of a lone man.

 

Jon peaked through the tent-flap. The inside was pure darkness except for the moonlight he let in. He could not see the sleeping soldier, but the snores made him feel assured enough to put one foot, and then the other into the tent.

 

If the man awoke, he wouldn’t need to recognize Jon as an enemy, only a thief. One shout and he would lose either his sword hand or his head.

 

Jon’s foot slipped and he fell face down onto the grass floor.

 

The snores stopped.

 

Jon froze.

 

The man stirred and his bare feet landed on either side of Jon’s head.

 

The soldier stood hunched over in his tent, listening for the call to battle.

 

“Buggering weasel-faces can’t let a man get no sleep,” he muttered and plopped back down.

 

Jon waited in the darkness for the sound of the man’s snores and every moment felt like an hour.

 

Staying flat on the ground, he felt around the side opposite the sleeping soldier. The half-helm was easy to identify by touch alone. He could not discern one article of clothing from another, so Jon clutched the entire pile and crawled backward out of the tent.

 

Once outside, he kept the half-helm and the cloak and tossed the rest of the clothes back inside. He knew that he risked sticking out in the Lannister end of the camp, so he made his way back to the Freys. _I doubt most have bothered to learn the name of even one of the common Lannister soldiers._

 

Passed the drunks and the camp-followers, he walked closer to Riverrun. Jon wished that he had a plan, any plan. His first thought was of the dragon. _Where are you? If only that beast behaved like Ghost, we could put this host to flame._ But, Jon didn’t quite know how powerful dragonsfire was or if the creature would be felled by the first arrow loosed. His next idea, sneaking into the castle, was both impossible and useless.

 

 _A note_ , he realized. He could spy for Lord Tully. Jon didn’t know what information he could convey, but he had to try. _First, ink and parchment._

 

Jon walked to the baggage carts that the Frey’s man had kicked him towards. He found servants in drunken stupors and no night guard. Stealing a steward’s ink, quill, and book of ledgers could not have been easier. He tore a page out and dipped the quill.

 

“Jon” -he paused at his last name. _Have I ever written the name I nearly died trying to earn here in the Riverlands?_  he asked himself. “Ser Jon Whitewolf. In the camps. Tell me how to help.”

 

He walked closer to the castle, but couldn’t think of any way to send a note inside. The walls of Riverrun were much shorter than Winterfell’s, even the Northern castle’s ancient, outer stone. The Tully’s fortress relied on the rushing rivers on two of its sides and the levied moat on its third. During a siege, the dam was lifted and riverwater filled the moated side. The walls rose straight up from the water’s edge, granting an attacking army nowhere to mount ladders or to roll siege towers.

 

Jon saw two Frey men-at-arms on duty challenging each other to see how far they could throw rocks. He turned back to the carts, found two egg-sized stones and took some string from a bundle of salted beef. Jon folded the note over one of the rocks; he crossed and tied the string to secure it.

 

Finding the two guards still at their game, he challenged, “Bet neither of you have the stones to hit the castle walls.” With his right hand, Jon tossed the bare rock to himself.

 

They stared at him.

 

“You must be mad!” shouted one of them.

 

“A man’d have to get within an arrow’s distance to even have a chance,” said the other.

 

Jon answered, “Oh, are both of you princesses scared to get that close to the walls? I see one guard close enough on the ramparts and no bow. If he’s enough for you both to turn craven, what will you do during the attack?”

 

They laughed at him.

 

“Don’t the Lannisters tell you lot nothing?!”

 

“Ser Ryman’s goin’ to just hang Edmure Tully, Lord o’ the Maidens, and be done with it. He sets ‘im up them gallows ‘ery day,” he chuckled, pointing across the Frey encampment.

 

Jon saw a wooden stand, towering over the tents. It was empty. “Where’s Tully?” he asked.

 

The guards hooted at each other, “You should’a seen it! The Kingslayer himself, not an hour ago, clouted Ser Ryman across the face and took the Floppy Fish.”

 

“There’s talk that the Kingslayer told ser to be gone by the morrow, but we got no orders, as yet.”

 

Jon persisted, “So you both’ll tuck your tails and run without even stepping within shooting distance? Now is as good a time as you’re like to see. I bet you two stags against your wineskins that you’ll turn craven before getting close enough.”

 

One snickered at Jon’s terms. _I know you paid nothing for your wine. You might pass on a battle, but can you pass on silver?_ He sprinted ahead, rather than give the guards time to think. One followed and the other stayed. _Just as well, one of you with me is cover enough, should any other Freys see me._

 

He threw the first rock to gauge the distance and hit the base of the wall. The Freys’ man pitifully did not even throw his clear of the river. He stopped when he saw Jon run all the way to the river’s edge. Jon continued running to the water’s narrowest point along the northern side of the castle. Jon hurled the bound up rock as high as he could. Trying to watch it, his momentum nearly cast him into the river.

 

Jon didn’t see if his throw was high enough or not. All the same, he backed away, lest an ally’s arrow put an end to his plans.

 

He heard someone shout and sped into a full run. An arrow thumped into the grass, a dozen feet short of him.

 

Soon, the Frey guards found him. Jon walked over and snatched their wine.

 

“Sevens hells, you’re dumb!”

 

“I hit the wall, didn’t I?”

 

“You hit the wall _on your first throw_! Your second was like to fly clean over it!”

 

After they left, he sat in the mud and waited. An hour later, he saw a torch moving along the crenels. It stopped for a few beats, then its bearer continued his rounds. Waiting for the sparse patrols on his side of the river to be out of sight, he ran towards the spot where the Tully guard had paused.

 

Jon shuffled his feet along the river’s edge, looking for a message.

 

After kicking over a few stones, he found one with a note. Jon hid the message in his cloak and returned to the camp. Holding it up to a torch, he read:

_The place where the dockhands’ children like to splash in summer. Dry clothes for two._

 

Jon walked along the river until he found a washerwoman’s cart unattended. _Probably off buggering a Frey_. He stole a basket of muddy clothes.

 

He continued to the spot, a quarter-mile down river from the castle, preparing to stay up until morning. Thirsty, Jon took off his helm and dipped it in the water.

 

A bare chested man jumped out of the Red Fork and grabbed him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM owns stuff.
> 
> Comments are welcome.
> 
> Cheers!


	23. Brynden - An Escape

“We were already preparing a watery escape!” Ser Brynden Tully laughed at the relief. “Jaime Lannister, Edmure’s surrender, and a guard with a note on a stone. . .”

 

Jon untied his horse, and Brynden greeted the white pup he hadn’t seen since it was newly born.

 

“You remember me, don’t you, fella?” he asked, scratching the white direwolf’s fur. Petting a wolf that was twice the size of a hound was strange enough for Brynden. The pang of grief for King Robb and his lost wolf made the interaction even stranger.

 

“Lad, that’s twice now you’ve returned from the dead to save a Tully.”

 

He was glad to see Ser Jon. His nephew had refused to believe his half-brother dead and clung to the hope of seeing Jon again. At that moment, Brynden would have gladly traded places with Robb if it could make the reunion happen and restore a piece of what their enemies stole.

 

“Happy to be of service to Riverrun again, though I wonder if you have another cask of ale in the offering,” joked Jon. “And as a southron, you might not know much of the Land Beyond the Wall, but stealing a maiden in the night? I never took you for a wildling, ser.”

 

The girl fidgeted in place. Brynden had nearly forgotten she was with him and put a hand on her shoulder. She was shivering even before the tension of this clandestine meeting.

 

“Pretty as the Maiden, she might be, but no, Ser Jon. May I present your good-sister, Queen Jeyne Stark.”

 

In the shadows among the trees, Brynden could not read Jon’s expression. The silence, though, hung longer and heavier than it should have.

 

“Your Grace,” he said.

 

Brynden didn’t know if Jon would blame Jeyne for the death of his half-brother. The Blackfish wasn’t even sure if _he_ blamed her.

 

The direwolf stepped forward to sniff her, and Jeyne let out a shriek.

 

“Shhh, child. I’m sure you're safe with Jon’s wolf.”

 

“Your Grace, he won’t harm you,” comforted Jon. “You can pet him, if you like.”

 

“Call me Jeyne. . . please.”

 

The bundle of clothes Jon had found smelled of men on campaign and there was nary a dress or pair of breeches meant for anyone her size. Jon turned his back, in a small show of etiquette. Once they’d dressed, Brynden looked like a Lannister man-at-arms and Jeyne looked like she had stolen someone else’s laundry.

 

Ser Brynden had planned to swim to freedom. Being raised at the Crag, Jeyne claimed to be a strong swimmer. Still, the Blackfish swam under the Water Gate with a rope for her to hold, in his teeth. He’d swum leagues down the Trident many times, though years had passed since he last attempted it. At best, it was a risky proposition.

 

“In the morning, the Kingslayer will enter the castle and find me gone.”

 

“And Lady. . .Her Gr. . . _Jeyne_ as well,” said Jon.

 

He grinned at his good-niece. “That they won’t, Jon. She and her sister switched rooms before we snuck out. Lady Sybell is not like to be pleased by her girls.”

 

“Ser Brynden, do you have a plan?”

 

“My first was the river,” he mused aloud. “Had we three horses, we might make for Fairmarket. The townsfolk have no love for Lannisters and hiding-”

 

“Wait,” interrupted Jon. “We _look_ like Lannisters. If we return to their camp now, we could blend with the drunks. My lady, if we switch clothes. . . I’d look more like a Lannister soldier and at least you wouldn’t look like you pilfered the clothes off one.”

 

Brynden liked the idea. They didn’t have enough horses besides.

 

Jon gave his wolf, Ghost, some private instructions. Without him, they walked to the Lannister end of the camps.

 

* * *

 

The trio waited in the camps the following day. Lord Edmure took his time before surrendering and the Kingslayer didn’t notice anything amiss until the morning after that. Once they realized that the Blackfish was gone, the Lannisters sent outriders in every direction, Westermen all. On foot, they could not have hoped to reach Fairmarket, or anywhere else sufficient to hide them.

 

The commanders passed down orders for the main force to march on Raventree. They said the Kingslayer himself was at the head of the host. Brynden had little choice in their direction, but heading east was most like better for them than anywhere else Lannister might have chosen.

 

Some of the Freys had departed before dawn on the day prior, leaving fewer likely to recognize Brynden. He played an old hedge knight hired by the Lannisters late in the campaign. Jeyne pretended to be his washerwoman. Jon took up the role of squire.

 

“You won’t need to be some gold-toothed mummer for that, will you?” he japed with the boy.

 

Brynden wore some of the plate armor Jon had in his saddle pack. Traveling in full plate was cumbersome, but even a hedge knight wouldn’t wear only cloth. So, he donned Jon’s breastplate, pauldrons on his shoulders, and rembraces on his upper arms. Without leather and mail beneath, they chaffed, even though Brynden shared Jon’s tall and lean build. _Two generations older than the boy and still fit enough to share his armor._ It looked piecemeal and sloppy, but fittingly like a hedge knight.

 

They continued marching along the River Road for two days. Then, they found the first of Ryman Frey’s dead men in a roadside tree. Word spread quickly of hanged Freys. “The Brotherhood,” men cursed. Some of the talk said the Kingslayer _sent_ them to their deaths. Few in the Lannister host grieved for their weak-chinned allies.

 

* * *

 

At Raventree Hall, the Blackfish led Jon and Jeyne onward. Only one commander thought to question him.

 

“Now that Riverrun surrendered, I must follow my orders and continue to Harrenhal.”

 

The commander looked like he would argue, but instead he said a haggard, old hedge knight wasn’t worth the effort.

 

“To where do we head, Ser Brynden?” asked Jeyne.

 

“The safest place in the Seven Kingdoms, sweetling,” he said as fatherly as he could, relaxing his bushy eyebrows to soften his expression. “The only-”

 

“The Vale,” Jon broke in.

 

“Very astute, lad.”

 

Jeyne looked terrified. _What has she heard of the Vale? Mountain Clans? Does she think I’ll force her to scale the Giant’s Lance with climbing spikes?_ His patience with the girl’s fears was waning, but did not let it show.

 

“Jon, I have not been back since I took you as my squire. Petyr Baelish married my niece. I have heard no word from either directly, not since they wed, months ago. And, Lysa would not respond to ravens throughout the war. I, Robb, and Cat sent her dozens. Lysa was not well, would not listen to reason. Rumors speak of unrest in the Vale. To what end, I do not know.”

 

“And yet you think it safe, ser?” worried Jeyne.

 

“I mean to find out,” he replied firmly. “You will stay shrouded and hidden with an old friend of mine. Jon will either stay to guard you, while I go to the Vale, or he will accompany me. The mountain road will be impassable by now. I mean to find a ship in the Saltpans to bring me to Runestone or Gulltown. Once east of the mountains, the journey to the Gates of the Moon should not be difficult.”

 

“And the friend?” Jon questioned.

 

“An old soldier, much like me. I fought with him once and against him twice-”

 

“Against him?” Jon asked, aghast.

 

“Or might be we shared a side twice and as foes only once.” Brynden stroked his grey beard. It had grown uncharacteristically shaggy. “As long as a man upheld his honor and never killed kin of yours, such distinctions blur with time. I wouldn’t think to leave you with him, if I was not certain of his worth. He is like to know more of what is happening in the Vale and elsewhere.”

 

Jon did not like his answer, Brynden could tell. But he also knew the boy. Jon would trust him in this, even though he would remain cautious and leery of betrayal. _Such is a good lesson for a young man to remember._

 

Jeyne would follow as well. The Blackfish wished it would be because of agreement or trust. Instead, she would defer to him out of meekness, worry, and desperation.

 

Though it was unlikely to inspire confidence in her, Brynden turned to his good-niece and said, “He has not wielded a sword in years. My old friend found his faith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the readers who've hung with this story and a big thank you to [Winter_Wolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_Wolf/pseuds/Winter_Wolf) , who is quite the beta.


	24. Jon - A New Route

Jon was relieved when Ghost rejoined them. Somewhere inside, he knew that the wolf would meet him. They found him near Lord Harroway’s Town. The wolf looked as if he might have swum the last half of the journey from Riverrun.

 

Once they reached the mouth of the Trident, a brown robed man ferried them to the island. He wouldn’t say anything when Jon asked about the Quiet Isle. Ser Brynden explained that novices and most of the proctors do not speak.

 

A small man in a home-spun, brown robe greeted them with a bow. He led Jon, the Blackfish, Jeyne, and Ghost across mud flats and up sloping fields. Most everyone Jon saw was dressed like the ferryman and their guide. When they passed the white, wooden stables covered by a shoddy roof, the guide waved to a short, bow-legged brother of the southron faith.

 

Jon looked him straight in the eye before handing over Drifts’ reins.

 

“I know little of the Seven, but, I swear by them that should any harm come to this horse, I will visit the same upon you,” he threatened.

 

Ser Brynden looked shocked. _Not the same passive boy you once knew, am I?_

 

The brother looked confused that Ghost was not on a lead or turned over to his care. Jon ignored his glances and the hooded man remained silent.

 

The rest of the buildings were guarded by a wall of piled stone, gated by a broken down horse-cart. The guide led them to a humble hall. The walls and ceiling were part of one arch. The narrow hall extended far enough that everyone in attendance fit in its front half. A withered, old man nattered on about chastity, fasting to cleanse one’s soul, and the _Sword and Stars_.

 

Jon regarded him closely. _Chastity in a septry of only men? Preaching about fasting while waiting for a meal to be brought out? How anyone might think the prattle of this man more sacred than an ancient godswood, I shall never fathom._

 

When finally the brothers served the meal, Jon offered coin for the Blackfish, Jeyne, and himself, but was rebuffed.

 

Afterward, the guide showed them to a door protruding from a hillside. The glass was leaded and foggy, but Jon could tell a fire was burning inside. A tall, broad man with a square jaw opened the door. It seemed he did not share the same vow of silence as most of the isle.

 

“Lannister men is it?” he said with a sly grin. “Thank you, brother. You were right to bring them to me.”

 

He let them in, even Ghost, and shut the door.

 

All of the furnishings were made of the same type of worn wood. The fire made the room uncomfortably warm for Jon, but Jeyne was glad for the fire and moved to stand by it.

 

“I have been wearing crimson for far longer than I care to,” said Brynden, and he threw off his surcoat.

 

Jon introduced himself as he had since donning his disguise, “Squire Jon Hill, umm. . . septon.”

 

Brynden and the holy man looked at each other and then the Blackfish said, “Excuse him, my friend. Though he may be a knight, he’s still a boy.”

 

“Does not the word ‘boy, ’ seem to fit more and more of them as the years get on? He’s making an effort to be respectful and you shouldn’t chide him for that.”

 

Ser Brynden introduced Jon and Jeyne by their real names and said to call the old soldier, “Elder Brother.” He described his plans and the brother’s face grew grim.

 

“Your niece is dead, I am afraid,” he announced, not unkindly.

 

“Poor Lysa. She was unwell. Do you know the cause?”

 

“A singer she’d been. . . one she’d known, he objected to the wedding and murdered her in a jealous rage. May the Father judge him justly. Petyr Baelish is Lord Protector of the Vale now, though other Houses have joined to make common cause against him.”

 

“He was frighteningly clever as boy. Lithe and sickly until he was about a squire’s age. Little Petyr was daring and mischievous even after being caught. But, I cannot believe he’d do anything that would deserve a unanimous uprising.”

 

“Oh, it is far from unanimous, Bryn. Dissention and backstabbing accompany this struggle for power, as it has for time beyond count.”

_More betrayal and danger._ Jon felt dejected. He could not claim to be fond of Jeyne, but his inability to get her to safety ached. _Is there no one I can protect?_ His mind went to Robb and Arya. . . and Lydrea.

 

His face must have revealed his thoughts.

 

“Young ser, do not despair,” urged Elder Brother. “I think the Vale remains the safest place for our lady.”

 

Jon Whitewolf recalled his mission, why he first came south. “Have you heard anything about my sister, about. . .”  

_Ser Brynden trusts this man with Jeyne’s safety._

 

“. . . my sister, _Sansa Stark_. Does anyone know where she is? I. . . fear the Lannisters still hold her in the Red Keep.”

_And Arya. Might he know anything of her?_ The thought of mentioning that Arya was lost to this stranger, troubled him in a way he couldn’t stomach.

 

Elder Brother looked at Jon as if seeing him anew. He quietly answered, “I have heard nothing of her regarding where she’s been since Joffrey Baratheon’s wedding. The Lannisters offer a pompous sum for her capture, but it may yet prove to be a ruse. Riders, both saviors and hunters, search for her. Some even from King’s Landing. I think it unlikely she is still in the Red Keep, given who has come looking for her. But, I do not know of anywhere else she might be. ‘Unlikely’ may be your best place to look.” He turned back to Brynden. “That is also why Jeyne should not remain here. With men looking for a girl of three-and-ten on the Quiet Isle, hosting a girl only slightly older will draw their attention.”

_Unlikely,_ Jon repeated in his head. _If this is a doomed pursuit, what kind of brother does that make me? Would Robb know what to do?_ He felt despair threaten to gain a foothold in his thoughts. Jon pushed it deep below. _I will find her, and Arya too. Once they’re safe, then I’ll kill all who had a hand in murdering my family. I’ll kill every last one of them._

 

Jon caught himself clenching his fists. He released his fingers and focused on the discussion.

 

“The capitol is the last place we can be certain that she’s been to. Even if she has fled or been taken elsewhere, I can think of no better place to begin your search, Ser Jon.”

 

Then Brynden talked about bringing Jeyne with him to the Vale. He insisted he had friends he could trust in Baelish, Yohn and Nestor Royce, and Donnel Waynwood.

 

“And Jon, I have someone  you must meet.” Elder Brother paused to size up Jon. “Whether you know his face or not, please hear him. Much of his reputation is undeserved, and furthermore, he is no longer the man he once was.”

 

He left to find to whom he referred.

 

Jon turned around to see Jeyne sitting by the hearth. He’d forgotten she was present. Robb’s widow slid her hands through Ghost’s fur. Jon thought it a good sign.

 

In walked a hulking man wearing the hooded robe of a brother. He revealed a gruesome face, half scarred by fire or by the worst frostbite Jon had ever seen. Jon did not know the man, but Jeyne and Brynden were shocked to find him here.

 

“You!” Jeyne accused, before drawing back into herself.

 

“Yes, girl. Me.”

 

“Brother,” argued Brynden. “Why would you bring this monster here?”

 

“As I said, he is not the monster you take him for, nor the man he once was.”

 

Apparently, Sandor Clegane had been accused of all manner of perversions: rape, murder, burning smallfolk trapped in their homes. Elder Brother insisted that the crimes of late were committed by someone who took Clegane’s helm.

 

“And he has a remarkable history with your family, Jon.”

 

Clegane growled a laugh.

 

Elder Brother spoke for him. He told Jon this burned man had protected his sister, Sansa, from Prince Joffrey’s cruelty as best he could. The former soldier spoke of redemption and penance.

 

“And he will help you on your journey,” he finished.

 

“To Gulltown? The Eyrie?”

 

“No, boy. The Red Keep.”

 

* * *

 

Jon did not want to bring this scarred giant anywhere. The Blackfish’s reaction cemented his feelings on the matter. When finally they deadlocked, Jon and Brynden arguing against Elder Brother and Clegane, their host motioned for quiet. He gave Clegane a nod.

 

Sandor Clegane conveyed little in the way of respect with his demeanor. “Boy, I have a new offer for you.”

 

Jon glared at him, but did not try to silence him.

 

“For the right to join your journey to King’s Landing,” he said, "I’ll tell you about your _other_ sister.”

 

Jon almost lost his balance and kept from falling backward by only a hair.

 

Clegane twitched his mouth into a smile. “Yes. The younger one, the wolf-girl. Wild little hellion she was, and I was the last to see her. At least of those who knew her.”

 

Jon was at a loss. _Arya?_

 

The hulking man did not soften his tone. “I take that as a ‘yes’.”

 

Ser Jon confirmed it with a nod.

 

“I was travelling with her for a time, kept her out of harm. She even saved my skin once. But, I took a wound and she left me to die. For a past crime. . . might have deserved it, might not. We were making for the Saltpans when she left me. We were looking for a ship, mayhaps to the Vale; but for certain, out of the twice-cursed, buggering Riverlands. She had a horse and a pocket of silver. Might be she had enough to get away. Wouldn’t be surprised if she killed a grown sailor with that skinny blade of hers and stowed aboard.”

_Needle. She still has it._ Jon could not doubt that this monstrous looking brute knew Arya.

 

“I have to find her,” Jon whispered.

 

“From what Sandor tells me,” added Elder Brother. “She can take care of herself and is likely well rid of the Saltpans. If you have to choose between which of your sisters faces the more dire fate, the one who might be in King’s Landing is in the most peril.”

 

“I can ask after her,” said Brynden. “I must go to the docks of the Saltpans anyways and will be heading where she likely landed, besides. If I get word of her in the Saltpans, I swear to chase after her. If I don’t or if I find her there, I will continue to the Eyrie.”

 

Jon pondered what they were suggesting to him. He said to the Blackfish, “So the proposed plan is for you to take Jeyne and look for Arya in the Saltpans first. Then, you’ll find out if she went to the Eyrie, as Clegane thinks. He and I will go looking for Sansa, starting in King’s Landing. When we find her, we’ll make our way to meet you in the Eyrie. Or if your search for Arya leads to elsewhere, we’ll wait for you there.”

 

Jon turned to Clegane. “If I do go along with this, how do you expect to sneak _into_ King’s Landing?”

 

Clegane barked a laugh. “How does anyone undertake a pilgrimage?” He answered his own question. “As a holy man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This new one sets up the next couple chapters. I hope you all like the potential.
> 
> GRRM owns everything Ice and Fire.


	25. Sandor - The In-Land Road

_Bloody hells it feels good to be on the move again,_ Sandor thought.

 

He’d prefer to be riding, instead he sat in a mule-cart rigged up for Stanger. The _Snow_ boy insisted on bringing his wolf along and they couldn’t bloody well march down the in-land road, passed Maidenpool and Duskendale, in a single column: one horse, tailing another horse, tailing a wolf. So the beast hid in the cart pulled by an ill-tempered warhorse.

 

Sandor and Jon dressed in brothers’ robes. The _Northboy_ had balked at impersonating Poor Fellows. “Why don’t you resume posing as a Lannister,” Clegane admonished. So Jon had taken his leathers back from the weak-kneed girl and threw a brown robe over his armor, as he was told. Beneath his robe, Sandor wore his soot-grey plate, but he felt naked without his lost sword belt.

 

Most travelers ignored them. Seated in a cart laughably too short for the horse pulling it, Sandor’s stature was obscured. An old woman asked Jon for a blessing and the boy couldn’t find his tongue. Sandor was tempted to let him flounder, but intervened, saying that his companion had taken a vow of silence. Sandor chirped some pleasant words to the old crone, after which, he laughed at the absurdity. Recuperating on the Quiet Isle had taught him a brother’s words, among other lessons.

 

On the road, Jon was quiet enough that he could well pass for a silent brother. Sandor, however, couldn’t claim any such vow, because he took to asking nearly everyone he passed if they had steel to sell.

 

Sandor Clegane was well acquainted with looks of fear or hatred directed at him, but not the brusque disregard most men showed a pair of robed brothers on the road. He was forced to remind Jon, more than once, to keep his temper in check. Though in the boy’s defense, the armed men were usually intending to provoke. _Would that we could cut them down, boy. You and I both._

 

They camped around their wagon, often in an empty stable or against the side of some half-charred mill. “The Crownlands are no safe place for a wolf,” Sandor told Jon. “Tarly and others have sent hunters after a blood-thirsty pack. Your pet will stay by the cart at night, or his pelt will adorn some lordling’s shoulders.”

 

Eventually, he found a man willing to trade two rusty axes for a few days’ food. Sandor agreed so long as he threw in his leathern belt. It was no proper swordbelt and from it the axes hung awkwardly, but at least it kept his weapons within reach.

 

Once they neared Duskendale, Sandor steered them off the road and into an expanse of grass fields. He said, “Lord Rykker is no friend of yours, wolf-boy. We have no business in that city or with the Dun Fort garrison.”

 

* * *

 

Sandor had expected trouble with Tarly’s iron hand in Maidenpool or near Duskendale. Once passed them both, he allowed himself to relax. He even spent a day sparring with Jon in a field. His strength hadn’t left him. _Grave-digging will do that to a man._ His bad leg was weak and felt slower than it should, but no longer pained him. Jon was clearly used to fighting men bigger than himself, but no one as well-schooled as Sandor.

 

“Do you always grumble when you’re beat, or are you sullen because I am the one doing it?”

 

The boy had the spine to shout back, “I am not _sullen_! Again!”

 

Jon charged. His ferocity gave him strength, but made him open to the slightest counter-move. Sandor threw him to the ground, once again, and rolled his eyes. Jon stormed off and that was the last of them playing at knights.

 

The town surrounding Rosby Castle was filled with houses of lattice wood daubed in clay and straw, as well as brawls. Smallfolk and sellswords fought each other, though Sandor couldn’t make sense of the sides. A trader leaving the town explained, “Lord Rosby finally coughed himself into a grave. He got no sons, no nephews, no daughters. E’ery day, some other highborn lordling claims the town and castle as his birthright. The townsfolk fight because they must. The sellswords and the hedge knights fight because they can. Now they use only fists, but mark my warning, someone will take too many hits to his skull and the steel will come out. Best keep moving, sparrows.”

 

Jon looked keen for a row. _You are like to get your wish, boy._ Jon had ridden for the gods know how many hundreds of leagues spoiling for a fight, as if he’d challenge Cersei to single combat and win back his sister.

 

Sandor did not wish to put the boy’s quest at risk before knowing himself capable again.

 

“Now’s as good a time as any, boy,” he said without explanation. The boy understood.

 

They kept their eyes open and their hoods lowered over their faces.

 

* * *

 

“Brothers! Poor Fellows! Help us!” someone yelled.

 

A woman sat in the mud, her face and skirts bloody. Two foxish sellswords glared down at her and at the three, small sparrows who’d stepped between. Sandor quickly sized up the sellswords. Both wore mail and boiled leather. One stood well over six feet and the other just shy of it. The tall one looked lean and menacing. The shorter one’s pot belly danced with his laughs.

_Ser Snow_ was off his horse without a moment’s thought. _Stark blood runs in his veins. He’s got more honor than sense, just like all the rest._

 

Sandor hobbled the boy’s horse against the cart. He peaked inside the large crate that spanned its bed. Grabbing the wolf by the muzzle, he ordered, “You stay here and you stay _silent_. Else, I’ll be wearing a new cloak for winter.”

 

 _Just wait for half a dozen seconds, wolf-boy,_ Sandor thought. Before he could reach Jon, the two rogues were shoving him into the tiny and useless begging brothers. Jon’s fists took the fat one off guard, punching his gut, then his bulbous nose, then his gut again. He stumbled back and crashed into the mud, but Jon lost track of the companion.

 

The tall one clutched Jon by the hair and pounded on his lower back.

 

_He’ll be pissing blood for a fortnight._

 

Surprising his foe, Sandor dug his fingers in and grabbed the sellsword by the face. He yanked down and the man doubled over. Clegane swung the side of his fist into the man’s throat. He coughed and fell to his knees. Sandor kicked the boot of his good leg into his face. He knew he’d shattered the rogue’s teeth, because shards of them cut into the sole’s worn leather. _He won’t soon be getting up from that._

 

A quick glance told him Jon’s fat one was still on the ground. Sandor took the opportunity to relieve the tall man of his coin-purse and boots. The latter proved too small, but to spite the sellsword, he threw them over a row of houses.

 

“Jon,” his words caught. “Buggering hells, boy!”

 

He had to pull Jon off of the bloody mess of a man. Seeing the portly sellsword spew blood was a reassurance. _At least the fool-boy didn’t kill him._

 

Sandor didn’t bother searching him for anything useful. He slung his arm around Jon’s throat, gave the bewildered brothers each a curt nod, and dragged Jon back to their cart.

 

Once mounted again, Jon blurted, “Why did you stop me?! Do you know what he said? The woman on the ground, he _bragged!_ He-”

 

“I know what he did, Jon.” Sandor did not give him a chance to interject. “Vile things and worse happen in war. You were right to knock him on his arse, but there’s nothing else for you to do. Even if you’d killed him. Some other sellsword or bandit would come along on the morrow and you’d have to stay and kill him too.”

 

They made haste until the town was at their backs. Even after they slowed, Jon kept his eyes to the road, though Sandor did not mistake the fury behind them. He knew he had to talk to the boy. _Elder Brother, you sod. You’re laughing in your hole in the dirt knowing you sent me with him._

 

* * *

 

Sandor remembered when he first awoke in the unfamiliar hut, months ago. He felt like he was burning. Not just his face, but his entire body. And not the intense burning of his nightmares. No, he was sweltering. And soaked in sweat.

 

_Where am I?_

 

A hooded figure stood over him. The shadow beneath a brown cowl stared back. “Sleep. You are being tended to. Regain your strength.”

 

In his fevered dreams, Sandor remembered Fang Ridge, lands which first belonged to his grandfather and then his father.

 

_And then my brother._

 

On that day, he found himself returning from the woods looking for his dinner. Sandor was nine. Instead, he found his father dragging a bloody, limp body into the keep.

 

_She’s dead. Your sister is dead and there is nothing you can do. You have to watch her struggle for the last breaths of her young life. Her final minutes felt like hours when first you watched them. In my dreams, it always feels like her dying goes on for days._

 

Sandor’s father didn’t have to say anything, the look on his face told him of his sister’s death. _That is the only memory I still have of his face._

 

That was also when he realized why his father always acted the way he did around his older brother. _He’s scared. The boy is his son and still father is terrified of Gregor. Just like me. No. . . more than me._

 

He remembered his kneeling father as a tall, broad man, but no fighter. He was a kennel master’s son. Even after _his_ father was granted lands and a keep, Sandor’s father was no lord’s son. He couldn’t read and, although he briefly served as a squire, couldn’t swing a sword with much skill.

 

Neither he, nor his father, confronted Gregor about what happened. Both were certain enough to know better than to mention her. Both felt responsible for not protecting her. But, only Sandor’s father eventually escaped the nightmares.

 

Suddenly he was taller, older. Sandor heard an unseen voice.

 

_Your father fell in a hunting accident._

 

Gregor didn’t bother telling the lie. He let others in the keep do that for him. _But I knew then. That was when I left._

 

* * *

 

Sandor knew the pain of failing to protect the few people he cared about. He understood the boy riding beside him better than anyone else was ever like to.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, but Jon was already staring at him and did not let him start.

 

“The Blackfish told me about you. I know your past. You have no right to-”

 

“My past _is_ what gives me the right to, boy. And you can open your ears and let sense in that way, or I can use the back of my hand to try an’ club some sense in your skull!”

 

Sandor took a breath. _The Hound is dead_.

 

He tried to recall how, precisely, Elder Brother had first started in on him. _Had no choice but to listen. I couldn’t even walk._

 

“That fury in your guts is like. . .” _Bugger me with a hot poker, this is useless._

 

Jon, for his part, was at least listening. Sandor had done little of that in the first weeks he was abed on Quiet Isle. _He is not you. He is Ned Stark’s bastard._

 

“If you let it, anger, regret, fury. . . they’ll rule you. They’ll overwhelm your _honor_ , your _duty_. I know about finding strength in rage, _believe that,_ boy _._ But, bridle it. Then _you_ decide when to loose it.”

 

Jon responded with only, “Fine.” But, Sandor couldn’t mistake the change in the boy-knight’s posture in the saddle. _The boy actually listened._ He smirked and felt his mouth twitch. _Must be desperate, this one, to take the advice of a dog._

 

* * *

 

When the towers of King’s Landing speared into the horizon, they finally discussed how they planned to get into the city unnoticed by any who might want the heads of the Lannisters' former dog and the bastard wolf of Winterfell.

 

“You must know _some_ hidden entry-way. You only spent. . . a decade, mayhaps, in that city?”

 

“Don’t over-trouble yourself with schemes, boy. We’ll ride in like any of these pious slogs, give the guard a _May the Warrior defend you and the Crone provide some cunt,_ and we’ll be in.”

 

“Ah, yes. Well thought. Just two penniless brothers: one riding a cart towed by the strongest-looking courser the guards are like to have ever seen, the other mounted on a finely trained-up palfrey, and a suspicious crate hiding a direwolf.”

 

He looked smug.

 

“. . . So what’s your plan, wolf-boy?”

 

Sandor had to admit, the boy had more than straw in that head of his. Thus, they waited at the side of the road, asking every pious looking git to pray with them and to enter the city of the High Septon and the Great Sept of Baelor, together.

 

Two brothers would be searched. A party of five-and-thirty: men, haggard old folk, filthy children, and their mothers, all bleating about the Seven and blessing everything they pass, would not. A young Gold Cloak stepped forward to block their path through the Iron Gate, but the two guards bracketing him gave him a rough shove out of the way. “Bleedin’ sparrows, ain’t we got enough already?” Sandor heard him mutter.

 

And with that, Sandor Clegane returned to King’s Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I haven't heard from some of my favorite readers in a while now. What do you all think about how things are progressing in our little fic?
> 
> To some of the newer readers who have joined the comments section: Welcome!


	26. Sansa - A Realization

_“Oh, and this might be old news to you, but the Night’s Watch named a new Lord Commander, a Stark.”_

_“Benjen?”_

 

Sansa kept turning over Lady Randa Royce’s comment and her own reply in her head, as she had in the weeks since she descended to the Gates of the Moon.

 

_Does she suspect who I might be? Did I give away my cover?_

 

Randa hadn’t asked about much besides gossip, when Sansa first met her. So, the mention of Benjen stood out.

 

A moon’s turn before that conversation, Bronze Yohn Royce arrived with the other Lords Declarant to demand that Petyr relinquish little Robert Arryn and the Protectorship of the Vale. Sansa remembered him from the time he stayed in Winterfell, on his way to bring his son, Ser Waymar, to the Night’s Watch. She had expected the Lord of Runestone to recognize her on sight, but he gave no such indication. _Did he know my face and only feign ignorance? Might he have told his cousin, Lord Nestor Royce, Randa’s father?_

 

Lord Petyr was careful to keep Sansa separate from Myranda, amiably joking that his natural daughter, _Alayne_ , was far too innocent to keep company with the pleasantly mischievous young woman.

 

_Does Petyr suspect something afoot with the Royces?_

 

Sansa gave up her futile attempts to sort out the situation. She had learned much under Baelish’s tutelage, but for that night, Sansa rolled over and slept.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Petyr arrived in Sansa’s quarters with three septas.

 

“Alayne, sweetling, your betrothed, Ser Harry, is on his way to meet you. Though we cannot know when, precisely, he will grace us with his charming presence, I think it best that we are ready for him. Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Alayne nodded, but did not know what to expect.

 

Petyr explained, “These septas are here to inspect your purity.”

 

She shuddered.

 

Without a word, the three women crossed the room and helped Alayne from her bed.

 

“Father, would you excuse us?”

 

“My dear, I must be able to attest with certainty that the septas did their job. I will remain over here, but I am afraid I cannot but watch over their work.”

 

She turned away from him, but the septas didn’t hesitate to remove her nightshift, and then her smallclothes. They made her turn in a full circle, then sat her on the edge of her bed. Alayne felt humiliated by the women and violated by Petyr’s eyes. Though she did not look at him, she knew his glances would track all over her body. The septas spread her legs, prodded her, then closed them.

 

They let themselves out.

 

Petyr said, “Please join me and Lord Nestor in his main hall, once you are dressed.”

 

Sansa saw the desire in his eyes before he left.

 

She had her maids draw a bath. At first, Sansa thought to scrub the touch of the septas off her skin, but instead she just sat in the water. She pulled her knees in close, leant her chin between them and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up legs. _Is this how my life is to be from now on?_

 

After hearing Petyr’s plan to wed her to Harrold Hardyng and to win back Winterfell, she had been elated. The girl she once was would have let the feeling of triumph carry her through to the day of her wedding, but she was no longer that empty-headed girl. _I am no longer Sansa Stark, I am Alayne Stone, the bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish._

 

Alayne thought more about what Lord Petyr must be planning. _Does Petyr mean to send me off with Ser Harry? Might be that will leave him free to rule in Sweetrobin’s name. Just. . . Petyr will never content himself with that. And, what would he want with Ser Harry? He’d not be able to control a man grown as he does Sweetrobin. . . Will Ser Harry succumb to an untimely death? Will Petyr later seek to claim me and the Eyrie? Mayhaps to take a son of mine and Harrold Hardyng’s, one whose blood could be traced to both Lord Jasper Arryn and Lord Rickard Stark, and to expand his claims and ambitions through him?_

 

She resolved to warn Harry once he arrived. Lord Baelish had saved her from the Lannisters, but was his own sort of wicked. _When he told me of all he planned to give, he did not wait even a minute before demanding a kiss._

 

Petyr and Nestor Royce had finished their morning meals by the time she reached the hall. Randa and her brother, Ser Albar, sat at Lord Nestor’s side, so Alayne took the seat on the opposite side, next to Baelish.

 

Though she had no appetite, Alayne sampled from the platter, if only to avoid looking at Petyr. She paid no mind to their conversation until the mention of Lady Lysa caught her ear.

 

“. . . and have thought to remarry, Lord Baelish? As Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Protector of the Vale, you would be a desirable match.”

 

“And would it be your hand which you think of when you say that, Lady Myranda?” he quipped in reply.

 

“I must say, my lord,” said Lord Nestor. “The rearing of children is made far more difficult without a mother’s help. Though my Randa is not the right match, one with experience raising boys might be of considerable help to young Lord Robert.”

 

Petyr smiled back. “As you say, Lord Nestor. And do not doubt that a match for myself has weighed on my mind for some time now. The choice of wife is among the most important decisions a man faces in his lifetime. I’ll not act hastily on mine own marriage.”

 

“Especially in times such as these,” said Albar Royce, “with war about.”

 

 “Oh, is there still a war on, ser?” Baelish asked. “I must have let it slip my mind, after all my lady wife did to keep the Vale safe. I know at first, you did not agree with her on this. But in light of what happened to the North and the Riverlands, can anyone now doubt her brilliance?”

 

The younger Royce clumsily shifted in his seat. He leant his elbows on the table and hunched his bulky shoulders. His father looked similarly uncomfortable.

 

“Undoubtedly, my lord,” offered Randa.

 

* * *

 

Alayne spent many of her evenings in the solar Lord Nestor granted to Petyr. Her father loved nothing more than an audience for his cleverness. He kept her abreast of the workings of the Lords Declarant, though she doubted that he let slip the more fragile of his schemes. Baelish quizzed her on aspects of his plans and what to anticipate in the reactions of the other players in his grand game. He did this as a maester might drill a highborn girl on the customs of the realm. _Luwin, are you safe somewhere? Will I ever see your warm, old face again?_

 

She was in the middle of such questioning when a servant burst into the room.

 

He shouted about Harry the Heir, then remembered himself and begged Lord Petyr’s pardons. “M’lord, something tragic happened to Ser Harrold.”

 

Alayne and Petyr found Harry Hardyng laying still, before Maester Coleman.

 

_I’m too late. . . he is already dead._

 

She was ushered out.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Harry was alive and eating with the household. He was a handsome, beardless youth. He had bandages around his head, covering his arms, and his loose tunic was splotched with crimson.

 

“Don’t you worry, m’lady,” said one of the guards next to him. “Ser Harry survived them mountain clans.”

 

_Was this not Petyr’s work?_

 

Harry watched her as the guard explained that the clansmen must have taken Harrold for dead. They slayed the rest of the men in his party, but he took only light wounds and a thump to his head.

 

Her potential betrothed grumbled about being mistaken for a dead man, despite the fact that it saved his life.

 

“And we all have Ser Lyn to thank for bringing our Harry to safety,” the guard said. “Mayhaps m’lady will want to give Corbray some reward or another.”

 

_Petyr’s man. A man of simple tastes. . ._

 

* * *

 

Alayne tried to entertain Harry, as was only proper given that they might soon be engaged to marry. He was pleasant and boyish through and through. She found his lightness refreshing. It was a respite from her worries. At times, however, he was distracted. Some concern loomed over him. He did not volunteer it, and she did not press him.

 

“As the heir to the Vale, ser,” she said with levity in her voice, “you best be on your guard. Heirs to the Eyrie have not been so lucky in these last. . . oh. . . fifty years.”

 

He was gracious enough to laugh. “Seeing your beauty has given me an even better reason to stay above ground. Do you think Lord Nestor might provide me a food taster? I dare say the cooking in his kitchens are not an equal to what I am accustomed to in Ironoaks. Mayhaps a taster would be of use, whether anyone wishes me ill or not.”

 

She didn’t trust him enough to tell him all. Alayne just wanted him to know enough to be on his guard. _I can only hope that he will take the jape with some seriousness._

 

* * *

 

That night, she tossed sleeplessly.

 

_He will be my husband._

 

She had not thought herself instantly in love with him, as she had with Prince Joffrey. _I’ll never think like that again._ Harry was pleasant, though a bit dim. He still carried the air of a boy who had never seen anything but summer and peace.

 

_I could be happy with him, in time. The Eyrie is safe and the lords loyal to him would protect me. How can I leave him unawares of the threat Petyr might someday present?_

 

Sansa knew what she had to do.

 

She climbed from her bed and threw on her robe. She crept up steps and down hallways to Harry’s quarters. _Let anyone who sees me think I am only eager for the arms of my would-be husband._

 

Hearing voices near his door, she ducked into a servant-closet. She kept the door ajar and listened.

 

“But you said he will be fine!” a voice said in a forceful manner.

 

“He will, ser. . . in almost every respect.”

 

_Maester Coleman._

 

“And what would that mean, old man? He still had two hands, two feet, and his headaches are almost gone already.”

 

“The thump to his head knocked loose any memory of the battle,” Maester Coleman said, “besides that first clansman he saw. But while he still slept from its effects, I examined the dozens of small cuts on his body. Each was shallow. None touched his throat or any deep veins. But. . . one of them cut into the flesh _of his seat_. A finger length to the right or left and it may have opened the veins that flow to his legs and that would have been the end of him. When first I saw that wound, I thought the boy uncommonly lucky. . . until I looked closer.”

 

“Spit it out.”

 

“In a man’s body, there are tiny veins between his _parts_. Veins a man _needs_. Understand? He will be forever. . . _incapable._ ”

 

She covered her mouth to squash any sound of her shock. _Petyr, what have you done?_

 

Alayne then hurried back to her rooms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to all the commenters, GRRM (of course), my beta, and all the writers who posted their stories on here before me. It can be nerve-wracking to put something you worked on, and care about, out there for anyone to like or rip to shreds online. I would’ve never started this without first reading the fics of writers like [Silverblood](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblood/pseuds/Silverblood), [ lit_chick08](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/%20lit_chick08), [honey_wheeler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler), [just_a_dram](http://archiveofourown.org/users/just_a_dram/pseuds/just_a_dram),[Ownsariver](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ownsariver/pseuds/Ownsariver),[ariel2me](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me), and [SecondStarOnTheLeft](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft). Newer writers, like [DKNC](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC), [Winter_Wolf](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_Wolf/pseuds/Winter_Wolf), and so many others, are also sources of encouragement through their continuing works.
> 
>  
> 
> *I've changed the rating from T to M. The tone and material of this fic isn't going to change. I just don't know where that line is so I'm erring on the side of M.


	27. Jon - Great Sept of Baelor

_Perhaps, Clegane was right: King’s Landing is no place for a direwolf_ , Jon thought to himself. The road had taken its toll on Ghost, who’d been forced to spend most of the journey concealed in a crate.

 

The capitol was nothing like Jon imagined. So much so, that he could not recall what he had sketched in his mind. The city smelled like sweat and worse. Jon knew Winterfell, Riverrun, even Qarth. The others had uniquenesses that added to their charms. Filth was the only characteristic in which King’s Landing excelled.

 

Jon was glad that Clegane had actually listened to him about finding a mob of pilgrims headed for the Great Sept. They not only helped him and the tall brute enter, but also for the road through Flee Bottom. Stew-shops, screeching children, and little else of note banked both sides the street. Jon might have sympathized with their poverty, if not for their cruel behavior. Everywhere he turned, someone looked to be looting someone else’s purse. The children did not play, they scratched and kicked each other. Even the slaves in Qarth did not look so miserable.

 

A traveling septon familiar with the city told the rest of their ragged band the name of the streets and structures they passed. Jon listened as best he could over the clamor of the crowds.  From his seat in the horsecart, Clegane pointed out the Street of Looms as the way to the real capitol, the Red Keep. Jon rolled his eyes, but held his tongue. _I could see the towers from a league away, do you think me blind? If ever lost in this city, the towers of the Red Keep would be a good place from which to retrace one’s steps._

 

They walked to the square in the center of the city, where their road converged with the “Street of Sisters” and the “Street of Seeds”. If they were anywhere else, it might be a place of great importance, but in King’s Landing it was just another tract of mud and people elbowing their way through the mob.

 

Turning to the Street of Sisters, they ascended a hill. “Visenya’s Hill,” Jon heard. They walked through gardens overrun with other brothers of various orders of the Faith. _How does anyone remember if a sparrow is the same as a begging brother or which of the armed orders are the Stars, and which are the Swords?_

 

At the top of the hill, a white marble building rested above aught else. Its seven corners were topped with crystal bell towers. Between them, the main body was roofed by a dome of paned glass and mullioned with gold. The seven sides each had its own door; above each door, stained glass clerestories depicted the seven figures of the Faith. Each of these imposing windows was itself taller than most of the buildings Jon had seen in King’s Landing, thus far. Gaudy or not, he couldn’t help but be awed.

 

“Wish to light some candles?” asked Clegane.

 

“What does that mean?”

 

Sandor shook his head. “A jape. You see. . . never mind, wolf-boy.”

 

Neither of them was inclined to fawn over the septon beseeching all who passed, so they continued on as best they could amongst the crowds. They walked under the famed statue of Baelor the Blessed and Sandor gave him a queer look.

 

To which, Jon asked, “And now, what does _that_ mean?”

 

He glared at Jon for a moment, then barked, “ _Again_ , never mind.”

 

Jon bargained three brothers, related by blood not prayer, into renting them their house. He asked them for five days’ stay. But, they convinced him to take it for a fortnight, demanding little beyond the price they wanted for half that. They were happy to be rid of the influx of the devout. Jon expected them to use his coin to stay somewhere else in the city, granting themselves ten days’ respite. The home was plain and narrow, but it was three stories tall. Once snuck inside, Ghost couldn’t have been happier for the room to run, sprinting up, then down the stairs.

 

“Where to start looking?” Sandor asked. He was anxious to begin their search. Jon was weary from the road, but whole-heartedly agreed.

 

“The Elder Brother gave me a letter for High Septon,” Ser Jon said. “He told me that it would help our search and to be sure it was the ‘sparrow’ septon, I gave it to. Not one of the others.”

 

They took the time to find boarding for their horses, then hurried into the huge sept. Jon and Sandor walked through the entry hall and Jon didn’t miss the shimmering lanterns that hung from golden chains above him. Jon let Sandor lead the way further in. Parishioners filed in and out, for the most part, quietly. He saw sun was setting through the domed ceiling. Most of the light in the attending chamber was provided by hundreds of candles at the feet of the statues to each of the new gods. _That’s what Clegane meant._

 

Sandor Clegane stopped a woman wearing a white coif. “Septa,” he said, with halting courtesy. “We bring a message from the Elder Brother of the Quiet Isle. Our orders are to give it to the High Septon and him alone. . . May we have an audience?”

 

Soon an unimpressive septon in common wool robes came into the grand chamber to greet them. Jon gave Sandor a look to convey, _Is this the man?_ He returned a nod and Jon produced the sealed letter.

 

The High Septon whispered as he read.

 

“Brothers, I welcome you to our Great Sept. Please come with me.”

 

He led them across the main chamber and through a series of doors, each guarded by a pair of knights wearing rainbow striped cloaks. The septon continued down gently sloping, spiral stairs. They met only septas as they progressed further below.

 

He stopped in front of a black door, made of wrought iron.

 

“Though I am certain of her culpability, the Faith still awaits her confession. You are not to harm her without my leave. Your arms shall remain outside.”

 

When Jon and Clegane opened the door, a young septa left and did not say a word to them. She stepped directly to the High Septon. Jon heard her whisper that she hadn’t allowed the prisoner any sleep, but still the prisoner was wild and refused to admit her sins.

 

“I did not believe that her wickedness would be driven from her in so soon after her confinement, I merely hoped,” the High Septon replied, flatly. “Tonight, you will instruct Septas Scolera, Moelle, and Unella to move her to the Crone’s Tower. They’ve experience with sinners and will help this one to find her humility before the gods. For now, attend to our visitors from the Quiet Isle.” He handed the Elder Brother’s letter to her. The High Septon touched the tips of his fingers together and bowed to Jon and Sandor before taking his leave.

 

Inside the musky chamber, a woman sat alone on the stone floor. She was comely for her age, and must have been quite the beauty in her youth. Her hair was oily and matted to her head. She wore a coarse, wool shift which covered her from throat to wrists and ankles. At first, she would not look at them, just staring at the floor.

 

“You!” she screamed, when finally she looked up.

 

One corner of Sandor’s grin twitched.

 

“I will have that insolent sparrow’s head for this!”

 

Sandor barked a cruel laugh. He stood looking down at her and made no move. _He’s enjoying this._

 

The woman’s face turned red and she pursed her lips.

 

“Who is she?” Jon asked at long last.

 

That brought another laugh from Sandor. “Ser Jon, it is my _pleasure_ to graciously introduce you to our lovely Queen.”

 

“ _Cersei Lannister_?”

 

“Aye, that’d be the one.”

 

“Ser Jon? Who in the Seven hells is that? Ser Jon -what?” she demanded.

 

“He is Ser Jon the Whitewolf. Formerly Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell.” His grin seemed like to overwhelm his scarred face.

 

Cersei immediately got to her feet with her fists clenched. Sandor snorted in amusement and she thought better of engaging in a confrontation, though she did not look any more composed than she had been a moment earlier.

 

Jon eyed this wretched woman. Her greed and arrogance had driven his family into undeserved fates. He might be back north at that very moment, telling Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Lydrea the tales of his time at sea, if not for her. Jon forced down the guilt he felt at abandoning the people who most needed him, and let his hatred for her fill its place.

 

Sandor grabbed his arm as if he could hear Jon’s thoughts, and held him in place.

 

“What have you done with Sansa Stark?” Clegane questioned.

 

“Is that what you’re after, dog? I don’t know the first thing about what became of that ungrateful, empty-headed twit. She’s probably met up with her Imp husband in whatever cow-shit hovel they’re hiding in.”

 

If Sandor did not still have him by the arm, Jon might have smacked her at that.

 

“The Imp is gone?” asked Clegane.

 

She snickered at him. “You’ve not heard? The Tyrells let him out of his cage so he could slay my father. If the roses have half a brain between them, they’ll take his fat head before he betrays them too.”

 

Admittedly, neither of them engaged in the gossip of the realm on the journey to King’s Landing, but they were both shocked that they hadn’t learned this turn.

 

“Tell me where you saw her last,” Jon pressed.

 

“Oh, so the bastard is not a mute! Dog, you could have taken plenty of gold off me if you’d put forth that wager.”

 

“I see no gold, just a dried up hag in a cell.”

 

Jon ignored their banter and persisted, “Where?”

 

“As humorless as his traitor father,” she boasted.

 

This time Jon was too quick for Clegane’s grasp and shook Cersei by the collar of her dress.

 

“Where! Is! She!”

 

“Gone!” she shrieked and he released her.

 

“I know things, wench,” interrupted Sandor. “You _know_ that I do. If I were to mention any of them to the High Septon, it might be that you still live come the day of your trial. . . But in what condition?”

 

That caught her attention.

 

She seethed with poorly restrained anger. “Do you think what I might tell you matters? Who in Westeros would take the word of this mad dog and the bastard wolf he’s taken as a pet, over their rightful queen?

 

“As to this girl you seem so concerned over, she was at that damned wedding with her vile, little, shit of a husband. That was the last I saw of her. Find the eunuch. No one’s seen him since that night either. Though I cannot imagine what use that little . . . that little. . . twit, would be to anyone without a cock.”

 

Jon looked at Sandor who inclined his head in a side-tilt, suggesting, _She’s not likely to be with this “eunuch”._

 

“Liar,” Jon accused.

 

She did not flinch at the rebuke.

 

“I’ll hear the truth from you.”

 

“What _truth_ , bastard? That I watched Ser Ilyn take your traitorous father’s head with his own greatsword? Or that I watched that little Stark boy break his back. The poor, feeble, crippled one.”

 

Sandor blocked Jon’s way to her. Jon couldn’t even see her around the man’s shoulders.

 

The Lannister woman cackled and continued, “I performed none of those deeds, bastard. I just had the pleasure of witnessing them. If they’d been better anticipated, I could have set up a pavilion and charged spectators for the right to watch.

 

“But what else might you care to learn,” she mused aloud. Her tone was better suited to the recalling of children’s games. “The Red Wedding was advantageous, but not my doing or my father’s. He didn’t need bloody his hands, Walder Frey and Roose Bolton were so eager to skin their pretender-king all on their own. They sewed the head of his wolf onto his neck and seated him at the feast they held for his death. His bitch-mother? They stripped her naked and threw her in the river. Though no one has confirmed it, I have my suspicions that Black Walder had a go with her dead body before that. Lord Walder might have done the same. He probably even got a child on her corpse, he seems to get them on everything else he sticks his cock in.”

 

Jon shouted indecipherable curses at her. Clegane lifted him off the ground and carried Jon from the cell. His arms flailed and twisted under Sandor’s steel grip, but he couldn’t break loose.

 

Outside, Jon faced the wall and struggled to catch his breath. He didn’t care to let Clegane or that young septa see his face.

 

“Hard lessons for a hard world, Jon,” he rasped. The scarred side of his face twitched, but his good side remained still and solemn.

 

“If you both are ready, I will show you to the other accused.”

 

Jon had no idea who else might be in the belly of the Great Sept and he knew that Sandor didn’t either. They both just nodded at the septa.

 

“Better timing, you could not hope for,” she told them. “Lord Tarly is on his way, no doubt to protest her imprisonment and upcoming trial. May the Mother grant her mercy, and the Father judge her justly.”

 

The second woman looked no less harangued than Cersei Lannister, but far more composed. Again, Clegane was recognized on sight, and Jon was not.

 

“I see you know me, girl. Who are you? Randall Tarly’s daughter?”

 

Her laugh was quiet and bitter.

 

“Is this some Lannister trick? What are you intending to do, Hound?”

 

“Do you think the High Septon would admit me into your cage if he didn’t have reason to listen to me? You’ll answer my questions or reap the consequences. And, I’m no longer a Lannister dog. Even a mutt can only be kicked so many times before you’ll feel his fangs in your leg. Who are you?”

 

She looked more amused than cowed. “Margaery Tyrell, _pious brother_.”

 

Jon knew the Tyrells were lords of the Reach, but had heard conflicting rumors of which side they supported in the war.

 

 _Cersei said they freed Tyrion Lannister,_ he remembered.

 

“Do you know where the Imp is now?” Jon asked.

 

“Am I to assume that _he_ is also neither a Lannister crony, nor disregarded by His Holiness?” she directed to Clegane.

 

“You will answer my questions or never leave this room in one piece,” Jon threatened.

 

She chuckled to herself, clearly not as intimidated by him as she was by Sandor.

 

“Regarding the Imp, no.”

 

“Cersei whispered something about a coin under her breath,” said Clegane. _I didn’t hear that._

 

Margaery shook her head.

 

“What do you know of Sansa Stark?”

 

“Pleasant girl. Out of her depths at court, but I harbor no ill will toward her.” She batted her eyes at Jon and pulled her braid over her shoulder. “Oh, you were expecting more? I suppose it could not hurt for you to hear that my grandmother and I planned to wed her to my brother Willas after my wedding. Lord Tywin, _rest his eternal soul_ , must have gotten word and abruptly handed her to his dwarfish son. It was such a pity, I believe she and gentle Willas would have gotten along wonderfully.”

 

“You can trust us,” assured Jon. “Does one of the Tyrells have her?”

 

“No threats? I dare say I prefer this softer touch. Still, the truth does not change. I have no inkling where she might be. If she was with anyone of my House, I would know. If you do find her, please relay my sympathies about her wedding.”

 

* * *

 

“A waste,” Ser Jon groaned, his elbow thumping on the table of their borrowed house. “This entire trek here, more than one hundred leagues from the Quiet Isle and how many more away from the Vale?”

 

Clegane did not disagree with him.

 

“The Blackfish will find the little bird and the wolf-girl if they are-”

 

“Little bird?” he asked and Sandor ground his teeth. _Why is he so familiar with Sansa?_

 

“She chirped her septa’s words like a trained bird. I tried to teach her about the world. She was too scared of me to listen,” he growled, “even if I was the only _valiant_ White Cloak who didn’t beat her bloody. _That was all_.”

 

Jon wondered if it was.

 

Sandor carved a crude outline of Westeros into the table. _The three brothers will love that._ He explained that if Sansa was no longer in King’s Landing and not smuggled out by the Tyrells, she could be just about anywhere else.

 

“But how would we know that she isn’t here?”

 

Clegane barked a laugh. “You don’t know the woman Cersei is. She’d not be able to contain herself if the Lannisters still had your Stark sister. The Tyrell girl? I saw no lie in her, but I do not know her and cannot be certain.”

 

Thinking of his sister, Jon offered, “She’d stay out of the North. Sansa’s smart enough to understand how dangerous it would be for her. With the Ironborn,” he cringed, “having sacked Winterfell and still lurking.”

 

“We can’t stay here for long, not with Kevan Lannister as regent.” Clegane looked up from the table. “I was stupid for telling Cersei your name.” His mouth twitched. “Learned quick enough and didn’t say anything to the Tyrell wench. If her father’s bannermen are coming for her, she’ll be the more dangerous of the two anyways.”

 

Clegane growled a laugh from deep in his chest. “No fool is coming for the Mad Queen.”

 

Jon didn’t know how to respond to the anger Sandor’s demeanor hinted at, so he returned to the matter at hand. “Where _should_ Sansa go? We can work back from there.”

 

They discussed each region of the Seven Kingdoms. The Westerlands and the North were quickly ruled out.

 

If Margaery’s word was to be believed, then Sansa wasn’t likely to be in the Reach; besides the Tyrells, Sandor did not think Sansa was close enough to anyone else from that region to trust them. He said he wasn’t sure the plan to marry her to the heir to Highgarden was more than a farce or a deception.

 

“The Crownlands would mean less time on the road,” Jon said. “But, remaining close to King’s Landing adds its own heavy risk.”

 

“If a Riverlord was hiding Sansa in his castle. . .” he continued, wondering. “If that lord stayed true, he’d have alerted Ser Brynden when the Blackfish still held Riverrun. If among the turncloaks, she would have been turned over to the Lannisters. Either way, we would know.”

 

“So not the Riverlands, wolf-boy.”

 

Jon ignored the disrespectful address that’d become commonplace from Clegane and asked, “Dorne?”

 

“As good a place as any, if she could get there. The Martells have no love for the Lannisters or the Tyrells. If your sister actually left King’s Landing when she disappeared, on the night of Joffrey’s wedding, she would’ve been gone by the time the Red Viper killed my brother and the rest of the Dornish left the city. Or, she might have hid until then and left _with them_.”

 

An unreadable expression crossed Clegane’s face. Jon held back from asking about it.

 

Regarding Sansa, they might talk themselves in circles trying to guess at Dorne’s interest in her or its interests in the war at large.

 

Regarding the Stormlands, they couldn’t think of a reason for her to run there or a reason to rule them out.

 

“What of the Vale, then?” Jon questioned. “Perhaps Ser Brynden found Arya. And what do you and I know of the goings on of the realm? Sansa may have surfaced. If we find no further sign of her after the rest of our search of King’s Landing, we might journey to the Eyrie. So, have you met the Lord of the Vale? This, _Baelish_?”

 

“Fuck!” Sandor barked. He smashed his fist into the table and a layer of skin flapped off his knuckles.

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“You stupid, buggering dog!” He grabbed his hair with both hands and began to pace. Clegane moved to kick his chair over, but put his boot straight through the woven backing. He wrenched it off his foot and, in one more kick, smashed it apart on the floor.

 

He closed his eyes and whispered something to himself.

 

Showing Jon his back, Clegane said, “I killed your father’s men. In the throne room. When he was arrested.” His haggard breathing slowed. “When Elder Brother and the Blackfish mentioned Littlefinger, that whore-mongering Baelish, all I could think about was that day, about who might have heard. . .” His voice grew hoarse as he growled, “But that doesn’t matter now. How could it?”

 

Jon didn’t understand.

 

“It was _Baelish_ who betrayed Ned Stark. Littlefinger bribed the Gold Cloaks to turn, and they did. He put a knife to Stark’s throat.”

 

Then Jon realized the result of Clegane’s failure to mention the betrayal. “If Arya or Sansa went to find their aunt in the Eyrie, but found him instead. . .”

 

“Stay here, boy. I’m going to the docks.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRRM owns everything of Ice and Fire.


	28. Brynden - An Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blackfish and Jeyne Westerling leave the Quiet Isle.

 

From the port-side of the ferry, the Saltpans looked to be in poor shape. Elder Brother had taken Brynden aside before he left. He’d said the commonfolk of the city had been left to fend for themselves when they were attacked. “Remember, Bryn, finding no sign of your niece’s little girl might be the closest to good news that you are like to have.”

 

He and Jeyne Stark stepped off the boat and only after they walked past the waterside homes did they see the true state of the Saltpans.

 

Ser Quincy Cox’s stone holdfast and the buildings adjacent to the water were all that was spared from the fires. Mounds of freshly turned soil far outnumbered the people remaining in the once prosperous harbor-town.

 

Two men tried to pull a mulecart through the muck. The Blackfish lent them his shoulder and helped push it out of a ditch.

 

“You have my thanks, brother,” one of the men said.

 

“Mayhaps one of you can help me. I search for my grand-daughter. A dark-haired girl of ten.”

 

They looked at each other. “Friend, when would she’ve got here?”

 

“About two months ago.”

 

Their expressions told him all he needed to know.

 

“The Hound’s men left none unharmed,” the man said. “Those a’ us who live, we was off in our fishing boats when it began. Ser Quincy. . . that man is no man, but some foul craven. He kept his guards walled up while our families were slaughtered.”

 

The second one told Brynden, “He made cravens of all of us. We had to watch from our boats, while’s the last of it happened. Them demons in human flesh left us naught but ash and blood.”

 

“So, no one?”

 

“No, friend. None of the wounded lived, even them we brought to the brothers on the Quiet Isle. We’ll ne’er return and you’d best be on your way. There’s nothing left for honest men in this place.”

 

The fate of anyone caught in the Saltpans was plain to see. Ser Brynden wouldn’t need ask each of the few left burying their dead about what happened to his grand-niece.

 

The Blackfish remembered Arya Stark as he last saw her, all adventurous energy and muddy clothes. _I’m sorry, child. And, I’m sorry little Cat. I pray that Jon hears better news of your other girl._

 

He wished he could hope that the younger sister survived this place, but the Blackfish was too experienced for such hopes. He asked the Mother to lend the girl Her mercy and to set Arya’s soul to rest.

 

* * *

 

Every trade ship on the docks was primed to leave. Brynden found a captain who’d only just arrived that morning. He wasn’t happy to find the Saltpans in their current condition.

 

“Ser Quincy-No-Cocks just let his folk burn. Most everyone is to be away from here. Yes, old man. I’ll take you both as far as Longbow, before I cross to Braavos.

 

Jeyne played the role of daughter to Ser Brynden and they shared a small cabin. With all the barrels of unsold turnips that filled their quarters, there was barely enough room for them to hang both hammocks.

 

After ten days of choppy waters, Brynden and Jeyne reached the shores of the Vale. In truth, they were no closer to the Eyrie than they had been whilst at the Saltpans. But with the other way blocked by snow high up in the Mountain Pass, the Blackfish had little choice. Thus, they bought two old horses at the harbor near Longbow Hall and left for the Eyrie.

 

The Vale of Arryn was, primarily, a valley between the crescent of mountains. Though the peaks could be as brutal as the North in winter, the fertile floor was as hospitable as the Riverlands.

 

Along their route, Brynden and Jeyne spent eight nights bedding down in various inns and farmhouses. _These lands look no different than they did years ago. Here, it is as if the War of the Five Kings never took place._

 

With miles still to go, the Blackfish beckoned to Jeyne and said, “Lass, can you see where that peak ahead meets the clouds? Somewhere above that, is the Eyrie.”

 

To the sight that had intimidated countless others, she responded with slack-jawed wonder.

 

Once they got closer, however, Jeyne began to exhibit the fear that had defined her disposition since hearing of her husband’s murder. Arrayed at the base of the Giant’s Lance, the mountain on which the Eyrie sat, a host of a thousand soldiers impeded the way.

 

They were greeted by a mounted man-at-arms. Seeing the banners of Houses Royce, Waynwood, Corbray, Templeton, and Redfort, Brynden insisted that he was a messenger who had urgent news for the Lords Declarant.

 

* * *

 

“And so you barred the way into the Eyrie?!” Ser Brynden Tully shouted. “ _That_ is how you mean to protect my grand-nephew? I say, _my lords_ , I do not know how much more of your _protection_ the lad will survive.”

 

He stormed out of Lady Waynwood’s thickly lined pavilion.

 

_Have they gone mad?_

 

The Blackfish had a hand in the governing of the Eyrie, along with Nestor Royce, in Lord Jon Arryn’s absence for thirteen years. He'd never known any of these lords to act so blatantly reckless. The Lords Declarant had at least lifted their siege, though they did not deign to name it as such. Still, they camped just beyond the entrance to the Gates of the Moon, the entryway below the Eyrie, with their levies. Petyr Baelish had named the Gates as the hereditary seat of Nestor Royce. Though it went against tradition, Brynden thought it a fitting decision.

 

“Ser, would you follow me to my tents? I have news,” invited Lord Yohn Royce.

 

He followed Bronze Yohn, but to _tell_ him what he thought, rather than listen to anymore justifications for the move against Littlefinger and Lord Robert.

 

The tent was spacious. The furnishings were all engraved with markings meant to resemble the ancient runes of the famous Royce armor and their castle walls. Burning embers in the large brazier kept the air dry and warm.

 

“First, let me express my surprise, and congratulations after a fashion, that you have returned to the Vale with your natural daughter.”

 

Referring to Jeyne Westerling, Brynden said, “She had never lived outside of Riverrun, but I could not leave her to the Freys and Lannisters. I assume neither she, nor I, have anything to fear among the Lords Declarant?”

 

“You would find no safer place, my friend.” Lord Yohn continued, “Let me speak bluntly, Baelish is a liar and, though I don’t know his plans, I am certain he will use Lord Robert for his own ends.”

 

Ser Brynden’s patience for further speculations was exhausted. _I thought to hear something of news, my Lord of Etchings._ He got to his feet, and walked to the tent flap. Too weary for courtesies, he opened it without asking for Lord Yohn’s leave.

 

“One last remark, Ser Brynden: a surprising number of natural children have appeared of late. Mayhaps when you meet with Baelish, you will take a close look at his.”

 

* * *

 

Ser Brynden left Jeyne in the care of Lady Waynwood and intended to retrieve her after he was able to assess the situation within the gates. He waved to the guards and entered alone.

 

_With all the men on that wall, you would think Nestor expects the Lords Declarant to storm the ramparts the moment they raised the portcullis._

 

In the castle’s feasting hall, little Robin Arryn greeted Ser Brynden Tully.  The boy sat in the lord’s seat, buffeted by blankets and cushions. The Blackfish had not seen the boy in years. He was born in King’s Landing while Lord Jon served King Robert. The young lord must have been little more than a babe when his mother last brought him to the Eyrie.

 

Petyr referred to the boy as, “Sweetrobin,” though his tone was stern. Robert was small for his age, thin and sickly. He greeted his grand-uncle warily.

 

Soon after his arrival, they brought out a meal. Lord Robert wailed at the food the servants brought for him. The Blackfish couldn’t avoid bristling in annoyance at the cries and at the boy’s shrill voice. He pushed his greens about his plate, trying to think of something besides the little lord.

 

After Petyr Littlefinger put a hand on Robert’s shoulder to coerce him to quiet, Brynden understood Bronze Yohn’s cryptic words.

 

A shiver ran through him.

 

In his younger years, Brynden knew the children of Riverrun well. His nieces, Catelyn and Lysa, his nephew, Edmure, and his brother’s ward, Petyr, would brag to him of their achievements and ask for his help at the difficulties they encountered. Though, Lysa and Petyr were more prone to whine, than to ask. Thus, he'd watched them at every stage of their childhoods. Seeing Littlefinger again brought back memories of their little faces, their builds, voices, and mannerisms.

 

_Robert Arryn is Petyr’s bastard!_

 

He might never have thought of it without witnessing them side by side. But to look at them together, it could not have been more obvious to Brynden.

 

The Arryns were tall, stout of build, with thundering voices. Robert was nothing like Lord Jon had been. His round face resembled Lysa, but his short stature, thin limbs, whining voice, and delicate health was quite the same as Littlefinger had been as a boy of eight.

 

* * *

 

Throughout the day, Brynden couldn’t take his eyes off of Robert. He did his best to mask his concern as interest in his niece’s son.

 

Littlefinger played his part so well, the Blackfish was amazed that Bronze Yohn had ever realized the connection. Petyr didn’t simply act disinterested to distance himself from his bastard son. Brynden watched him put on a mummer’s show of pretending to be a disinterested foster father struggling to _look_ protective and mindful.

 

_This is why they blocked the gates and demanded that Littlefinger hand over the boy._

 

* * *

 

Long after the rest of the fortress fell asleep, Brynden and Petyr sat alone sharing a flagon of a fine Arbor vintage.

 

“I know about Robert,” he said bluntly.

 

Baelish didn’t show even a flicker of self-doubt, “And what is there to know of our young lord?”

 

“Petyr Littlefinger, do you think you can lie to me? Is there a man alive who knows you better than I? I know everything. I know why Yohn Royce is so eager to take him from you.”

 

Petyr kept his amiable demeanor, but said nothing.

 

“How can I help?” asked the Blackfish.

 

At that, Baelish’s eyes grew wide.

 

Brynden laughed. “You doubt me? What are the Tully words? You are near enough to family to make no matter and of course Robert _is_ family. I may be able to keep him in your care. If I make pledges to the Lords Declarant, I presume they would choose me as Regent. It might be a great risk, though. With the Mountain Pass blocked and with how secretly I landed in the Vale, the Lannisters can’t possibly be aware that I am here. If I put forth my name as Regent, they will likely hear of it. But what are they to do ‘til spring? And would they wish to bring the biggest, still intact host to bear on them?”

 

Littlefinger looked unsure.

 

“Your _bastard_ would remain in your care. True identities need not be divulged, or so I would prefer.”

 

“Prefer? You would _prefer_ that?”

 

The Blackfish said, “Of course. The safety of my kin is more important than whatever else may happen. But I must tell you of _my natural daughter_. She’s just outside the gates and now that I see that you have matters in hand, I mean for her to join us.”

 

Petyr set down his glass. His attention was rapt.

 

“Jeyne Stark. She switched places with her sister before Edmure yielded the castle. I could not let her become subject to the whims of the Lannisters, so I smuggled the Young Wolf’s widow out of Riverrun.”

 

Petyr smiled at his foster uncle. “I’ll be sure to take good care of her, ser.”


	29. Jon - Leaving King's Landing Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a brief chapter and the next two will be also. I'll have all three up within the next few days (hopefully). So, if you happen to be one of the readers who doesn't like short chapters, you won't have to wait long. Then, you can just read them back-to-back-to-back.

“Pack our things and be ready to leave,” Clegane ordered.

 

He left before Jon could mount an argument. Jon packed their few combined possessions and waited.

 

He was half asleep in a chair when Clegane returned.

 

“Go back to sleep, boy. Our ship leaves at mid-day on the morrow.”

 

Jon trudged up the stairs to his room on the second floor and found Ghost waiting for him. As proud as the three brothers had been about renting _all three stories_ of their home, the second was a loft so small that Jon had to sleep on a corner-to-corner angle to avoid having to curl up. Clegane’s room on the third was no bigger.

 

Alone in the darkness, Jon whispered, “And one day I will see you again father, Lydrea, Robb, Bran and Rickon, and. . .”

 

He waited for a moment to listen for any sign that Clegane was still awake. “But first, I’ll find Sansa. And Arya. Then. . . Finding them is all I can do to make up for failing the rest of you, for not being there.”

 

He often fell asleep apologizing to the ones he lost. When alone, Jon whispered such thoughts aloud, when not, he apologized in silence.

 

His nights began with calm grief, but he awoke each morning in a burning sweat. His jaw and knuckles would ache from being clenched throughout the night. Most often, Jon didn’t recall his dreams; though on occasion, he remembered flashes of soaring through what seemed like an infinite darkness. Snatching up any creature he could find and carrying it back to a rocky cave. Those dreams also filled him with an anger that kept pushing through his efforts to quell it, when morning arrived.

 

* * *

 

Jon groaned as he heard shouts.

 

“I’m awake, Clegane! Shut it!”

 

“Alright boy,” he said when Jon descended the stairs. “We have the morning before we must be at the docks. Best we make use of it.”

 

In the doorway, Jon threw his brown robe over his armor. Clegane raised his hood and slung his set of plate over his shoulder. Leaving Ghost in the house, they went to the stables to retrieve their mounts. Jon rode Drifts and Sandor rode Stranger and they made their way to the Street of Steel. Jon’s horse was startled by the sound of metal hammering against metal, and he did his best to calm him.

 

They left both mounts in a blacksmith’s horse-stall for shoeing, and proceeded on.

 

* * *

 

Sandor’s set of plate was in poor shape and Jon paid an armorer to do his best to repair it in the next few hours.

 

A score of Gold Cloaks rushed passed and Jon casually asked the smith, “What’s gotten into them?”

 

One of the rushing guards of the City Watch shoved Jon in the back. Clegane pushed him in return. In an instant, five other Gold Cloaks came up from behind the first with their spears held high.

 

“Just be on  your way,” Clegane warned menacingly.

 

The six Gold Cloaks only edged closer.

 

“The Father’s judgment has been rendered upon the Lions! All those who back that abomination born of incest will be damned to a fiery hell!”

 

Jon couldn’t tell from where the shout came, but as he turned to look for it, he realized just how many Poor Fellows and Warrior’s Sons were crowded on that street.

 

The city guards took a moment longer to reach the same conclusion.

 

“Stay back! This is not your concern, sparrows!”

 

Clegane and the watchmen struggled for a moment. He warned them again, “Be gone! You don’t want any part of this fight.”

 

The first guard only stepped closer, brandishing his spear.

 

Quick as a striking asp, Clegane’s hand shot out and fish-hooked the guard’s face. Needing only two fingers, he flung the thin man to the ground.

 

“You!” one of them yelled in disbelief.

 

Clegane’s hood had fallen from his head and the Gold Cloaks recognized his scarred face.

 

He glared at the first guard. “You best keep your eyes on the sparrows about you, if you wish to save your skin.”

 

Jon grabbed Clegane and they pushed through the growing crowd. They doubled back through an alley between smoky forges. Their horses were shoed and ready.

 

Mounted, they could see above the rest of the mob and forced their way through. Jon and Sandor tried to return for Clegane’s armor.

 

The scene they’d fled had gotten worse in their brief absence. The Gold Cloaks had stabbed two Poor Fellows and dozens more guards were running to the whistles of their comrades.

 

“Him!”

 

Raising his hood again proved to be a futile disguise.

 

“Ride, boy!” Sandor Clegane barked out.

 

Jon reined his horse around and followed.

 

They passed brothers of the Faith and Gold Cloaks running towards the escalating standoff. They galloped down the backside of Visenya’s Hill.

 

Guards hollered after them, but on foot, they couldn’t keep pace.

 

In the commotion, a mother in ragged clothes was elbowed into their path. Her babe fell from her arms. Jon and Sandor both reined up to keep from trampling them.

 

“Get on your feet, woman!” Jon heard himself command. He looked over his shoulder to see watchmen closing the gap between them.

 

A begging brother picked up the infant. Jon felt someone grab the back of his robes, before Drifts sprinted forward.

 

“Come on!” yelled Clegane.

 

The King’s Gate was only a short ways off. _If we pass outside the walls, they’ll never keep up._

 

Jon could hear raised voices behind him, but saw that the gates were open and the way was clear. He charged through first and the guards did not try to stop him.

 

Once beyond the gate, he heard a jaw rattling scream. Jon looked back and watched Sandor Clegane fall from his saddle.

 

The seconds seemed to hang in the air, then Clegane hit the ground. Dripping red, two arrows protruded from his back. His face in the muck, he stretched a hand overhead.

 

Jon saw the guards on the wallwalk winding their crossbows.

 

With a roar, Clegane got to his feet and drew both axes from his belt. He clanged them together, before charging a spear-line of Gold Cloaks.

 

He swatted away the first spearpoint and buried the axe from his other hand into the man’s skull. The edge must have caught and he let the crude weapon fall with the lifeless guard.

 

Sandor gripped a spear with his free hand and jabbed the butt of it into the watchman’s belly.

 

He roared again as he swung his remaining axe wildly. The Gold Cloaks all retreated a step.

 

“Run!” Jon yelled.

 

Clegane was stirred back into cognisance. He turned and sprinted away. Jon had never imagined a man that big could move with such speed. _He’d trample a bear under his boots._

 

_Thunk! Thunk!_

 

Sandor crashed to his knees with two more crossbow bolts in his back. He dropped his axe and fell onto his hands.

 

For the first time, Jon saw fear in Clegane’s eyes.

 

“Tell-” was all Sandor said before another arrow hit its mark and his eyes rolled back.

 

Jon fled before anyone thought to come after him.

 

* * *

 

He galloped along the shore of the Blackwater, away from the city. He didn’t slow until he found an isolated clump of trees and brush, surrounding a small tributary.

 

He slid from his saddle and crumpled to his knees.

 

_What in the seven hells just happened?_

 

Unbridled anger rose up inside him. Jon had no direction for it. For Clegane’s death, he didn’t know whether to blame himself or Sandor, or even the Lannisters. His emotions boiled over and he lunged out. Only moments later did he realize that he’d just punched the coarse bark of a tree. Jon watched the blood trickle down the back of his hand, and his knuckles began to swell.

 

“Stupid, Jon,” he told himself. “Just bloody stupid.”

 

For the first time, Jon noticed that Clegane’s horse had followed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, questions, and thoughts are always welcome!


	30. Jon - Leaving King's Landing Part 2

_I now have two mounts, but to where can I ride?_

 

Jon knew little of the Vale and owned no map. He remembered that the Blackfish had said the Mountain Pass was blocked with snow. With that knowledge weighing down his alternatives , Jon concluded that a ship was the only option left, if he wished to arrive in the Eyrie.

 

Jon winced at the pain in the hand he’d split open in his frustration. After tearing a strip of his roughspun robe with his teeth, Jon wrapped the cuts as best he could. One handed, he tucked the edge of the bandage to keep the wrapping tight, and it sent a sharp pain through his hand and up his arm.

 

In that moment of piercing pain, he suddenly felt a worse wound.

 

* * *

 

He stood on shards of glass. He was back in the house of the three brothers. Jon didn’t understand it, but he knew he’d pulled a window off its hinges with his teeth, sending it to crash on the floor. Jon backed up, ran over the glass, and leapt through the open window.

 

He stumbled as he landed. It felt as if a fang was wedged in his. . . paw. Jon looked down and saw Ghost’s white paws. _I am seeing through his eyes and this is no dream_.

 

_I must escape from this giant, stone den._

 

He ran between the buildings. The splinter in his paw ached with every footfall. _Glass_ , he remembered.

 

The narrow trail he followed was covered in the droppings and markings of man. The stench overwhelmed his nose. Rats fled at the sight of him.

 

He ran as far as he could, until the trail opened into a crowd. He stopped and tried to pull out the splinter with his teeth, but couldn’t.

 

_Go. Follow this street down the hill. They will be afraid of you, just be fast._

 

The first man to see him howled in alarm. He ran past, dodging between people and horses.

 

Hearing the high-pitched barks, a part of him understood. _That one shouts, “It’s a sign! Lady Margaery is innocent! A wolf in pure white fur, untamed and unspoiled.”_

 

A mother and her cubs jumped away from him. Somehow, he knew the way out.

 

He saw the cave opening, but men stood nearby with their long, shiny claws. His paws slid in the dirt as he stopped. They were dragging one of his pack. The big one, more like a bear than a man.

 

_He is dead. Keep going._

 

He bared his teeth at them, but sprinted to the way out. Two thought to stop him. They lowered their long claws, but he jumped over the points. The force of his body knocked both of the men to the ground.

 

_Do not stop here. Do not fight these two. More will come._

 

He bit into one of the fallen men’s ears as hard as he could. The man yelped in pain. Tossing his head back and forth, he wrenched the ear from the man’s head and let it fall from his mouth. The direwolf sprinted to his escape.

 

_Along the wall! Do not run in the open!_

 

He knew that was how the big one died, though he couldn’t quite remember seeing it.

 

Once he could no longer hear the barkings of men, he turned from the stone walls and ran along the water’s edge.

 

* * *

 

Jon didn’t know the best way to flee King’s Landing. The City Watch might be waiting for him, should he attempt to return and may even have sent men after him. Escaping through the Crownlands would not do. To reach the Vale, Jon needed a ship and that meant finding a port.

 

Ghost was another problem. Jon had no means with which to hid him. He couldn’t expect the direwolf to swim out into Blackwater Bay and find Jon’s boat once it left the docks.

 

Jon waited for dusk before setting out. He told Ghost to roll in the muck beside Blackwater rush. _In the dark, mayhaps he will be mistaken for an enormous dog. If the guards are looking for my wolf, at least he won’t appear white._ On foot, he led the horses by their reins and Ghost walked between them, obscured from view.

 

Along the waterfront, Jon could see the damage left over from the Battle of the Blackwater in the moonlight. Buildings that must have once been inns, storehouses, and merchant stalls were in disarray or in the process of being rebuilt. One hundred or more quays awaited ships, their moorings mostly empty.

 

All of the days he’d spent in ports acquainted him with the goings on of harbors. Even in the damaged and disorganized wharf, Jon could spot the crews who were eagerly waiting to depart and approached several of their captains.

 

They were all in foul moods. The current trading in King’s Landing was well below the activity of a major port in peacetime. In addition to the disarray on shore, the harbor dredging had been haphazard and some of the remnants of the Battle of the Blackwater still threatened the hulls of merchant ships.

 

Fortunately, Jon still had almost all of the coin he’d left his keep with. A lord’s travels usually included spending his nights bedding down in inns. No lord, Jon had spent his nights, except for on the Quiet Isle and in King’s Landing, on the cold ground.

 

One captain he found asked for ten times what Jon expected to pay for passage to the Vale. After he walked away from that mooring, a boy approached him.

 

“What are you after?” Jon asked.

 

The boy pointed at him, then pulled at Jon’s brown robes. Jon followed him to a ship. The captain saw them approach and offered, “If you need safe passage, I’ll charge only fair coin.”

 

His cabin was scarcely big enough to fit its cot. Jon barred the door and laid down. Ghost stretched out beneath it and they both fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

_Unless the sun is rising from the west this morning, we are heading in the wrong direction._

 

Jon returned to his humble quarters, reached under the cot, and pulled out his swordbelt. With Ghost at his side, he approached the captain on-deck.

 

“What is the meaning of this? Why are we rowing southward? We agreed on the Vale before I came aboard.”

 

The captain wasn’t surprised by the question. “You are not our only passenger, ser. Best take your cause to m’lord.”

 

Jon found the bald, clean cheeked, fat man in the captain’s cabin. It was larger than Jon’s, by far, and smelled sweetly of perfume and candles.

 

“My lord,” Jon addressed him. “Why would you come aboard this ship if you meant to voyage south? Both the captain and I wished to travel north.”

 

The lord took his feet, raising himself off a stool nailed to the cabin floor.

 

“Sometimes we all wish for the wrong things. Journeying north would be counter to your interests, ser.”

 

Annoyed, Jon replied, “ _My interests?_ What would you know of them?”

 

“I know that you are traveling to the Eyrie to join Ser Brynden Tully.”

 

Jon couldn’t hide his shock. “But, how. . .?”

 

As the lord giggled, his purple robes, garlanded with thread of gold, fluttered.

 

_I know that laugh._

 

“You belong to the Fat-man of Pentos,” Jon said flatly. “You’re his man. I doubt that you are lord of anything.”

 

The bald man’s expression was a mix of amusement and quaint surprise.

 

“Very clever, I must say, ser. I am usually quite discreet. Might I ask what you learned of me then, and in the time since?”

 

Jon crossed his arms. “You might.”

 

“Ah, but a pity I cannot be promised an answer. Nevertheless, Storm’s End is our destination. As you already know me, I wish to make introductions between you and someone who will likely be waiting for us on Godsgrief’s old, Stormlord throne.”

 

_Who might be waiting for this man? Or for me?_

 

“I can assure you, ser, that you will find nothing more pressing in the Vale, nor more delightful,” he tittered.

 

Jon was in no mood to be mocked.

 

_Arya, I’m coming to find you in the Eyrie, just where Clegane said you’d go. You’ll be there and I’ll find you. I won’t fail. I won’t._

 

With one hand, he grabbed the man by the neck of his long robe and pulled free his sword with the other. Jon dragged him stumbling up from the cabin into the morning winds. Ghost trailed after them, the fur on his back raised in warning. The deckhands were confused by the apparent turn, but made no move to stop him.

 

Jon pushed the plump man into the railing and pressed the tip of blade to his round stomach.

 

“Go to the captain and order him to come-about and perhaps I will let you live,” he threatened.

 

The man looked exasperated, not scared.

 

“Great effort was invested in this audience. I would much prefer to live to witness the fruition of those efforts.” He pinched the flat of Jon’s the blade with his thumb and forefinger. “You have kin in the Stormlands. You-”

 

Ser Jon Whitewolf did not let him finish. He raised his sword from belly to throat, and pressed hard enough to see the fat of the man’s jowls conform around its edge.

 

_I have been duped and sidetracked at sea enough for one lifetime. I will not allow it to happen again._

 

“Show me proof that either of my sisters live, or die for your lies.”

 

“Your female kin is far from here, though you do not know her as well as you should. At first glance, you might not recognize her face. She lingers across the Narrow Sea, though she will join us in time.”

 

The foreign man tittered at some jape hidden in his words, and Jon leaned his blade in harder.

 

“But! But, the kin you shall meet at Storm’s End is male. Your half-brother.”

 

He withdrew his sword. _My brother? Robb? Could it be that he lives? “Your half-brother,” he says._ . .

 

Jon had spent his life hating the sound of that phrase. Its blatant implication was that he was something less than a true sibling to his brothers and sisters. _But now. . . does that mean I heard wrong about Robb? Bran and Rickon’s bodies were. . . but, could Robb have survived? Might the tales of Walder Frey’s treachery against gods, men, and his king be lies? Could it be part of a larger scheme?_   

 

_Lies, schemes, and riddles. . . A taste of hope. . . or. . ._

 

Ghost jumped up against the Pentoshi steward and snapped at his face. The wolf’s teeth bit only wind, but Ghost’s message was plain. The bald man stammered in fear.

 

Following his wolf’s reaction, Jon grabbed the riddler by an ear and yanked him to the captain, at the stern of the ship. Ser Jon kicked the back of his prisoner’s leg, forcing his knee to bend and to fall down to the deckboards.

 

From his knees, he said, “Captain, I fear I was too hasty with the direction we discussed last night. Gulltown has proven to be the more prudent destination.”

 

* * *

 

Jon avoided the robed traveler as best he could. Every time the man tried to speak to him, Jon showed his steel.

 

 _I am not certain my threats are merely feigns intended to scare him._ Jon wondered, _Would I truly kill him? Would I regret doing so, if I did?_

 

The unnamed man did not chance being run through and did not pursue conversation with Jon for the remainder of the nine day journey to Gulltown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun not profit! Reviews appreciated!


	31. Jon - Approaching the Gates

 

“Who approaches?”

 

“Ser Jon Rivers, my lord.”

 

 _Another bastard surname I’ve been saddled with. In service to the Blackfish, I received one name to be proud of and two I despise,_ Jon told himself. Despite his reluctance, _Hill_ and now _Rivers_ didn’t feel ill-suited. Regardless, he knew anonymity was worth allowing people to think him a bastard. _I am one._ “May I hear your name?” Jon asked.

 

“Ser Andar Royce, Commander of Scouts for my lord father and the Lords Declarant.”

 

 _A Royce_.

 

Stranger moved closer to Ser Andar’s horse. Riding Drifts, Jon held the stallion’s led.

 

On the ride from the port-city of Gulltown, Stranger had spent more leagues leading Jon than the other way around. By the third day, Jon had given up fighting Sandor Clegane’s horse. They rested when Stranger wished to graze and pressed on along the valley-road when the warhorse desired it.

 

This close to the encampment at the foot of the Giant’s Lance, Jon didn’t dare bring Ghost along on his approach. Regardless, the wolf found no shortage of places to hide on the mountainous stretch of road.

 

 _I’ll bring you something rare and dripping with grease the first chance I get,_ Jon thought to himself.Ghost had earned that and more. Without his nose, Jon would have never been able to sneak around two separate parties of clansmen on the fortnight’s journey from Gulltown.

 

The mounted knight asked Jon, “What is your business here, ser?”

 

“I am hoping to enter into the service of an honorable house in the Vale. I served Riverrun before it fell to a Frey. I refused to swear my steel to any man of _that_ house.”

 

“And none could fault you for that, ser.”

 

_As long as the Blackfish trusts Lord Royce. . ._

 

“You mention your lord father, would he be Lord Yohn Royce?”

 

Ser Andar nodded.

 

He knew he was not as clever with subtle words as Ser Brynden, but still Jon attempted to hint at his purpose to Bronze Yohn’s son. “Other knights left Riverrun as well. Might be that one made his way into your lord father’s service before me?”

 

Ser Andar looked at him quizzically. “A question best asked my father. He’ll be the judge of your worth.” He paused and looked at Jon once more. “Though by my eyes, you are like to possess more worth than the hedge knights I’ve seen of late.”

 

Jon was surprised at how little resistance Andar Royce imposed on him. He thought it would require a heavy degree of positioning before he might have words with a high lord.

 

_Ser Andar looks to be no man’s fool. He must have seen Ser Brynden. . . He must have._

 

* * *

 

In the camp, a page took both of Jon’s horses.

 

Lord Yohn was alone, save for two servants and his guards outside. His pavilion was thickly lined and warm, though Bronze Yohn did not look averse to the mountain snows.

 

He looked up from his meal and squinted his bushy brows at Jon.

 

“Father,” said Andar. “This knight just arrived from Riverrun, he says. He asked after any other knights, who might have joined us since the Freys stole the castle.”

 

“My lord-”

 

Bronze Yohn did not let him begin. “Thank you, Andar. Please give me some time to speak to our young friend.”

 

Ser Andar turned on his heels and marched away. The servants scurried out without a direct command.

 

“Take a seat, ser.” He offered Jon his skin of wine and a hand of bread. “May I have your name?”

 

Jon hesitated. “My lord, I would be grateful if you might answer the question your son just relayed. My apologies, but I am eager to learn of any other Riverland knights who might have journeyed into the service of you or these _Lords Declarant_.”

 

Lord Yohn cleared his throat.

 

 _Why must he make me say it? What choice exists, but telling him the truth?_ Jon did not care to alert anyone to Ser Brynden’s, or Jeyne’s, path.

 

“So be it, young ser,” said Yohn Royce. “We’ve had no shortage of hedge knights and sellswords come ashore in Runestone, Gulltown, Old Anchor, and half a hundred other places, only to chase us up here. Most I wouldn’t trust with my boots, though one stood out from the rest. An older knight.”

 

“Might he have brought a girl with him? A washerwoman?”

 

Yohn laughed and the sound bounced off the leather and canvas weighed down with snow cover. “Was she a serving girl when last you spoke? She blossomed into the knight’s own blood by the day he arrived in my camp.”

 

 _Where are they?_ He wanted shout, impatient with the nuances of the conversation thus far.

 

“Both the Riverlander and the brown haired girl are inside the gates. He grew frustrated with our talk, not unlike you, if the look in your eyes is to be believed.”

 

Lord Royce cleared his throat. “You know of whom I speak. I know the man, have for many years. So, at long last young man, who are you?”

 

“Ser Jon Whitewolf, knighted by the Blackfish of Riverrun, and the natural son of Lord Eddard Stark.”

 

Royce studied his face. “You have his look. Ned was not much younger than you, when he was a ward of Lord Jon.” He waved his thumb behind him. “Just through those gates and up a thousand or so feet of mountain. Still, the Vale has seen an abundance of deception of late.”

 

“Before you doubt me,” Jon said with a sly grin, “perhaps my lord will allow me to prove my blood?” He knew his wolf was close. Every day, he could feel their connection growing. Jon walked to the pavilion opening, poked his head out, and whistled.

 

Shouts went up, first from the scouts at the tree line, then in the camp.

 

“To me, Ghost,” he said holding open the tent flap. The snow covered direwolf bounded inside.

 

A dozen men-at-arms charged in after the white beast, bowling Jon over.

 

Lord Royce calmed his guards and dismissed them. Ser Jon dusted himself off and Ghost shook the snow from his fur. He nodded at his wolf and said, “All of my father’s children have one.”

 

_Had one._

 

Yohn stepped around the table to pet the wolf with heavy, callused hands. He hollered for servants to bring in a plate of food and a leg of boar.

 

He dropped all pretense. “Brynden has fallen prey to _Lord_ Littlefinger. That man is too clever by half.”

 

“Ser Brynden has known him since he was a boy in Riverrun,” Jon replied, “considers him practically kin.”

 

“More than ever, I need to get you inside the Gates of the Moon,” Lord Yohn grumbled to himself. “Brynden wouldn’t listen to reason. Littlefinger is not a man to be trusted. I . . . I was frustrated and too coy with the Blackfish. I thought he would see what I’d meant straight away. Even after he stormed off, I thought he’d return the following morn. I was hoping for his help clasping Baelish in chains, but that was weeks ago and the gates have not opened since he sent for his girl.”

 

Royce crossed the room and picked up a fresh wineskin. He handed it to Jon before saying, “He has Sansa Stark.”

 

“Brynden found her?”

 

“No, Littlefinger did.”

 

Jon was shocked. “What. . .how do you. . can you be. . .? And this is _Sansa_ , not my sister _Arya_? You. . . you are sure?”

 

“I am quite certain, ser. I half-recognized her face right off. And, this old man’s memory didn’t take too long after I saw her to connect a name to that face. About a year before the realm went to the crows, I stayed in Winterfell on my way to Castle Black. I met your half-sister, and I suppose you as well.”

 

“You didn’t, my lord. Meet _me,_ at least. But you are certain about my sister?”

 

Yohn steadied his face. “My cousin, Lord Nestor, wouldn’t listen to reason when I told him, insisting that Baelish wouldn’t dare. I asked his daughter to prod her with questions. The results were enough for me, but Nestor is only beginning to come around to the truth of it. My cousin’s daughter mentioned Ned’s brother in the Night’s Watch. Thankfully, the girl took the bait. Also, after some distracting, she lost track of her cover and slipped about her father, as well.”

 

“Our father? What about him?”

 

“No, Ser Jon,” he said with empathy in his eyes. “Littlefinger has claimed her as his bastard daughter since before Lady Lysa died. There’s more. . . I believe Baelish plans to wed her. Though she was oblivious to that during Myranda’s questions. Thus, I feel safe to guess that he has not dragged her to his bed.”

 

Ghost paced restlessly.

 

“My cousin Nestor or one of his children, Randa or Ser Albar, should be able to smuggle you through the gates. Mayhaps with your wolf in tow.”

 

Jon felt dazed. Relief and fury tugged at him.

 

Yohn didn’t stop. “Littlefinger is confident that he bought the loyalty of the Lords Declarant.” He scoffed. “Corrupt men usually assume other men to be as greedy as they are. And to gain the allegiance of the one lady among our united faction, Anya Waynwood, Baelish arranged a betrothal for Sansa Stark.”

 

Jon didn’t understand. “To the girl he claimed as his daughter?!”

 

“Not for himself. To young Harrold Hardyng, the next in line for the Arryn seat, after Lord Robert. He’s a good lad, a bit vain, but not a bad match. He was attacked on the road and _rescued_ by Baelish’s obvious catspaw, Lyn Corbray. Though to what end. . . When I heard, I thought him murdered for a certainty, but it seems he’ll make a full recovery.”

 

Jon felt overwhelmed. _More plots and schemes._

 

“The deplorable man lusts after your sister, but agreed to pay a staggering dowry to wed her to someone else. His power derives from little Lord Robert, so I cannot figure how Ser Harry factors into his ambitions. Mayhaps to provide an infant as the third in line? The actions do not connect. It’s maddening. Not even Lady Anya understands this particular plot.”

 

_Sansa married again? Better this Harrold than the Lannister dwarf._

 

“But of course,” said Yohn, “as an elder brother, you might be best consulted before any wedding.”

 

Jon had heard enough. “So, this _Littlefinger_ has my sister and has tricked Ser Brynden into compliance. He means to complete some plot involving her: mayhaps marrying her off when he has no right to, or else taking her as an unwilling bride for himself. Need I know anything else before I take this _Littlefinger’s_ head?”

 

“You need be mindful of little Robert, our lord,” urged Bronze Yohn. “He is frail and sickly. Brynden either has been duped, as I fear, or he has some reason for remaining inside the gates. He may, in fact, have a plan of his own, but I’ve waited long enough for him to act.

 

“Ser Jon, you look tired,” he said. “We’ll find you a bed to catch a few hours of sleep. It would not due for you to be walking about in daylight. I mean to send you over the gate tonight. I’ll devise a way.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it, three chapters in four days!
> 
> The next one will take a bit longer to finish up, _but_ it is a massive chapter taking place at the Gates of the Moon.


	32. Sansa & Littlefinger: A Change of Fates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Important Note:* Double line-breaks mean a change between Sansa's POV and Petyr's. 
> 
> Even if you miss a switch, you should be able to tell whose perspective it is within a couple sentences. Single lines mean the same thing that they have throughout this story: A break in time or train of thought.
> 
> So, instead of splitting this chapter by POV, I decided to leave it intact. I hope you like it!

“Stay with our Sweetrobin,” Petyr had said. “We cannot trust anyone else with his care, sweetling.”

 

For a week now, Sansa had been confined to the two adjacent rooms, hers and Robert’s, within the castle at the Gates of the Moon. When first she arrived, Sansa was allowed to wander about the grounds.

 

_Something changed._

 

“A guest. An amusing and quite perilous one, at that,” was as far as Petyr would elaborate.

 

_I can see what you’re doing, my lord._

 

Sansa was pulled from her thoughts by the commotion in the courtyard. She ran into Robert’s room, as hers bore no windows. He was sleeping fitfully and had thrown the blankets off his pale, clammy torso.

 

The curtains were nailed into the window sill, so she yanked at a corner. She saw torches crossing the yard below her. Men-at-arms trudged through the knee-deep snow, tracing each other’s footprints.

 

When Sansa peered into the hallway, the guards, whom Petyr insisted were for her protection, weren’t there. But, she could hear their voices echoing up from the bottom of the stairs. Closing the door as quietly as she could, Sansa left and briskly walked the other way. _I’ve been trapped in those rooms and kept in the dark for too long._ She crossed Petyr’s empty solar, followed the hallway to its end, then descended to the yard.

 

Feeling the cold air hit her face, she realized that she had forgotten to bring a cloak. Wearing the green, woolen dress she’d worn for dinner with Sweetrobin and Lord Petyr, Sansa wrapped herself in her arms and followed the rush of guards. She had to fish her fallen slipper out of the snow and arrived in Lord Nestor’s hall shivering.

 

Then, she heard him.

 

“Where is my sister?!”

 

Sansa gasped as she saw Jon encircled by Lord Nestor’s men. He wore a black cloak over dark grey armor. His sword and dagger were out. At his side, Ghost bared his fangs.

 

_They are both covered in blood._

 

A man laid motionless at his feet.

 

“I demand to see her!”

 

The castle guards remained around him, but kept their distance. Two knights closed in on Jon from opposite sides. One was lean and without a helm; his surcoat was messily arranged on his shoulders and bore dyed segments of dull yellow and ermine. The other was short, with bright orange hair poking out from under his helm and a white mouse on his shield.

 

Ghost leap to his side, avoiding a jab by the lean knight’s sword. Jon caught the other one’s sword with his own. In return, Ghost snapped at his attacker and Jon slashed his dagger at the second knight. Both strikes were met by shields.

 

The white direwolf then jumped directly at the lean fighter. The wolf’s momentum and his weight behind the leap knocked the man to the ground. Ghost glided off him and immediately joined Jon. In unison, they attacked the shorter knight. Jon swung his sword overhead, bringing it down upon his foe’s shield. He dropped his dagger and hacked at the knight with both hands. Ghost bit at the man’s leg, which he barely withdrew in time.

 

Suddenly, Jon swept his blade low, striking below the knight’s shield and battering his knee. At the same time, the direwolf vaulted up and caught the round edge of a pauldron in his teeth.

 

The knight crashed to the stone floor, his helm coming free and skidding away. Ghost sunk his fangs into the man’s throat, just under his chin, and viciously jerked until the knight stopped struggling.

 

The lean knight regained his feet.

 

“Jon! Behind you!”

 

He instantly crouched and spun around, raising the point of his sword. The knight stepped right into it. The second attacker must have taken off his mail for the night, because the tip of Jon’s blade slipped easily into his gut.

 

Sansa watched him fall to the ground cursing; she took a moment to realize everyone in the hall was staring at her.

 

Jon let go of his sword, leaving it sticking through the dying man, who crumpled on the floor trying to stem the blood leaking from his stomach.

 

Her black-haired brother froze, watching her. _Does he believe I am still her? The girl he once knew? Does he recognize me?_

 

Ghost pummeled Sansa to the ground and mauled her with tongue licks and sniffs with his wet snout.

 

She dissolved into a fit of laughter and tears and playfully tried to push the huge wolf away.

 

Jon shoved his direwolf off and helped her to her feet. Sansa flung her arms around her bastard brother’s neck. _My only brother._ He smelled of leather and snow.

 

No one disturbed them as they stood there for a long while.

 

_Jon._

 

When they broke apart, he absent mindedly tried to rub his eyes with the back of his steel gauntlet. Jon only succeeded in smearing blood across his brow. Sansa smiled at him and cleaned it off with her sleeve.

 

“But, why? How?”

 

Jon smiled back. “The Blackfish and Bronze Yohn, and no small amount of luck.” He pointed to a tall, grey-haired man who now stood over the dying knight. “That’s your uncle, Ser Brynden Tully.”

 

The kind-faced man strode over to her and clasped her by the shoulders. “Well met, grand-niece.”

 

She had so many questions for the both of them, but the time did not feel appropriate.

 

Lady Myranda Royce came forth to greet her. She motioned at the crowd of servants and guards, who lowered their weapons. At her insistence, they slowly dispersed. Men-at-arms carried one man to the maester and dragged the other two out into the snow.

 

“I knew it, you know,” Randa bragged.

 

The Blackfish of Riverrun said, “Come now, Lady Myranda. Let us go find your father.” They strode off to find Lord Nestor, and Sansa showed Jon to her rooms.

 

In her quarters, Sansa helped her brother out of his dark grey, plate armor. She wiped off the melting snow and mud from each article with a rag-cloth and laid them out on the floor. She pulled his chainmail over his head. Beneath it, Jon wore a boiled leather jerkin and he insisted on keeping it on.

 

Lady Randa arrived to offer Jon his own quarters, but he refused to be parted from Sansa. She was warmed by his genuine, if illogical, instinct to protect her, even in as safe a place as her room.

 

Exhausted, Jon settled himself quietly beside the hearth, curled up on two plush chairs pushed together, with his sheathed sword in his arms. After he closed his eyes, Sansa draped a fur over him. Once she settled herself into bed, Ghost decided to sleep atop her blankets.

 

She stroked his fur. Sansa thought of her own direwolf and all she wished to say to her.

 

“I am so sorry, Lady,” Sansa whispered. “I was just a silly girl then. One lie, just one little lie. . . I got scared. Lady, how could I know you would pay for it? If I’d only spoken up and spoke truly, if I had seen Joffrey for what he was, even then. If I’d been stronger. . . Mayhaps Cersei couldn’t have taken me captive, if you were there to protect me. . . Nymeria could have watched over Arya. If only. . . If I’d defied her, Cersei might have demanded that my betrothal be rescinded. Mayhaps then, we could have all just gone home. . . In King’s Landing, it was my fault. I went to her. . . And then father was. . .”

 

Ghost pushed the top of his head closer to her. With Sansa’s arm across him, they fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, a serving girl was carrying mulled wine and hot broth to the guards on the gate when she found him.

 

Lord Nestor Royce, faithful and gallant, had been stabbed a dozen or more times with a knife. Every one of the wounds was in his back.

 

When they opened the Gates of the Moon to the Lords Declarant, knights dragged Lord Petyr inside, his face bloody and swollen.

 

“He made off with your bastard daughter, Ser Brynden,” said Ser Andar Royce. “You’ll be pleased to know that he was unable to sneak through my lines.” His guards took their leave to escort a dazed Petyr Baelish to be secluded in his chambers.

 

A slender girl with long, brown hair tentatively approached the Blackfish, who introduced her to all in the hall as his natural daughter, Minisa Rivers.

 

The lords seated themselves and were served a simple mid-day meal. Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone declared that on the morrow Petyr Baelish would be tried and for him and the Lords Declarant to take the day to prepare.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Petyr Baelish was dressed and well rested by the time guards came for him. Fortunately, the Gates of the Moon lacked for elaborate and famed prison cells, and he’d spent the night confined in his own quarters.

 

“I am quite able to walk under mine own power, ser,” he said. “The castle has seen a marked increase in feeble men and old women. I would council you to direct your arm-holding exploits towards them.”

 

He looked at the knight’s attire and assumed this man’s identity. “Ser Andar Royce, how fares your father, Lord Yohn, this morning?”

 

“Fine. You need not worry yourself over his condition.”

 

Littlefinger thought to himself, _And now say, ‘Be concerned about your own,’ or some similarly boorish quip._

 

“You should worry over _your_ condition, my lord.”

 

_How clever, ser._

 

“Please, ser. Do not fear for me. I am certain your lord father will uphold justice. In any event, he will not see fit to harm me.”

 

When they reached the hall, Petyr stepped in front of Ser Andar and led the knight and his guardsmen to his seat. Baelish scanned the room, making note of the important pieces for today’s gambit.

 

Around the edge of the hall, tables and benches were pushed close to the walls. At the ones closest to the dais, sat the members of the Lords Declarant. Lady Waynwood was there with her ward, Ser Harrold Hardyng and a dozen retainers from Ironoaks. Lord Redfort and his knights took the adjacent table and remained so quiet that Petyr might have otherwise overlooked them. Lord Lyonel Corbray and his brother, Ser Lyn, shared a table, though they seated themselves at opposite ends. _When did Lord Lyonel join the siege outside my gates? Why have I not learned of his appearance. Mayhaps Lord Yohn thought to keep him as a secret reinforcement. Oh, how surprised he’ll be. . ._

 

Further down, Ser Symond Templeton, the Knight of Ninestars, had his place. While not a lord in title, Templeton’s lands and levies were comparable to any high lord in the Vale. From them, he derived the power and influence that placed him well above most other knights in attendance.

 

The dais, in the center of the far side of the hall, was adorned with half-moons and falcons, as befit the traditional winter seat of House Arryn. On it, Lord Yohn Royce presided with Ser Brynden Tully on his right and Lady Myranda Royce with her brother, Ser Albar, on his left.

 

Facing the dais, a solitary table was placed in the middle of the floor. _For me, of course._

 

Passing through the crowded rabble that would be sitting behind his back, Petyr saw Sansa. _My sweet Alayne. That bastard brother of hers is next to her, but no warmth will be shared between them._

 

Having seen Petyr to his seat, Ser Andar Royce joined his father and cousins on the dais.

 

Bronze Yohn signaled for quiet.

 

Petyr stood at his table. “Thank you, my lord.”

 

_Did you think I would allow you to set your authoritative tone? I am not some horse thief._

 

He continued, “I would like to begin by thanking Lord Yohn for today’s proceedings, wherein I shall clear my name and the misunderstandings that have led us here. My lord, I believe it only right that you should begin. In gratitude, I yield the court to you.”

 

Royce did not appreciate Baelish’s initial maneuvering, which was an indication of its effectiveness.

 

“Petyr Baelish, you sit accused of treachery against the Vale and Lord Robert Arryn. _That_ is the reason for today’s gathering.”

 

He stated the trial’s procedures, “As it would be unseemly for a boy of Lord Robert’s age to be subjected to whatever you might say, the Lords Declarant will judge you as one, unified voice. Any who wish to speak today will be granted that right.”

 

_And no doubt Ser Brynden encouraged that the boy be kept away, still somehow diluted into thinking him of my seed._

 

Petyr knew that Bronze Yohn would surely speak against him. Ser Symond was likely to, as well.

 

Baelish knew he had both Corbrays staunchly aligned with him. _The prices of their loyalty were oddly similar, accounting for the differing predilections of each of them._

 

Lady Waynwood would have no choice but to agree to whatever testimony would keep Petyr in power, given that she still waited for the dowry he offered in Alayne’s marriage pact. It was all that could save the woman from the money lenders’ wrath.

 

Lord Redfort had been kept silent until that point by an implied threat from Ser Lyn Corbray, whom his youngest son squired for. Though Mychel Redfort was recently knighted and likely back in his father’s castle, Lord Redfort still looked as sheepish as ever.

 

 _Ser Brynden will keep out of any contentious fray because of his nephew. Why he thinks I’d be careless enough to get Lysa with child, I do not know._ Petyr suspected that if he mentioned it, others were likely to convince the old knight of the belief’s lack of merit. _But if I let him silently stew over Sweetrobin’s welfare, Brynden Blackfish will not oppose me._

 

He smiled inwardly thinking of Lord Yohn and Ser Templeton, the two Corbrays and Lady Waynwood, and Lord Redfort and Ser Brynden. _Two against, three in my favor, and two to abstain when they deliberate. We might as well conclude the day before it starts._

 

“I will begin this trial myself,” Lord Yohn announced.

 

Littlefinger wished he had a moment alone to laugh or roll his eyes. _Yohn Royce? That is how you wish to begin, my lord? You have the least to say as a witness and the most to gain by a conviction. Your status and reputation might have given weight to others’ accusations, but by opening the trial yourself, you will appear petty and bleed the credibility of all who follow you._

 

Lord Royce called Petyr deceptive, a man whose word could not be trusted, and said he had been acting against Lord Robert’s interests since arriving in the Vale.

 

“My lord, I admit that I have fewer years experience as a father than you. But, can you state a specific situation when I have harmed my stepson?”

 

Lord Yohn had no answer. His eyebrows bristled in frustration.

 

Baelish took the opening to advance his cause. “Many a time, my lord, I have heard it said that you are a man of honor. Your renown for justice was why I so quickly acquiesced to your request for a trial. But, I dare say that I heard other whisperings of you as well. Though I have long thought it slanderous, talk exists of your ambition. Of your desire to rule the Vale. For your wish to rule in Lord Robert’s name.”

 

Petyr smiled. “But, of course such talk is untrue, my lord?”

 

Lord Yohn challenged him, “Do you mean to impugn my honor, Lord Baelish?”

 

He feigned shock. “Did it sound as if I did? I had not meant to. My only wish was to inform you of what some think of you and to confirm how wrong they are. Before all in attendance, do you swear that you are a man of your word, my lord?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

 

“That was my belief as well. But if I am incorrectly judged, who will care for my stepson? Who will protect his interests and the Vale if I am banished? My lord?”

 

Yohn said nothing.

 

_That is it, Lord Royce. Let the silence hang like a noose around your stout neck._

 

Petyr scanned the faces of the other lords near the dais. “My lords, my ladies, what was to happen to Lord Arryn?”

 

Ser Templeton spoke up, “The discussion between the Lords Declarant and the other lords of the Vale led to the agreement that Lord Yohn would foster Lord Robert and act as regent until he came of age.”

 

_Thank you, ser. You might be dim, but you are not entirely useless._

 

“How can that be?” asked Baelish, getting to his feet and pacing out from behind his table. “And when would you wish to begin this regency? I recall that you gave me your word that I would be granted a year to prove myself capable. That was less than two moon turns ago, my lord. Would your oath delay the beginning of your reign? Who would take charge of my stepson in the meanwhile?”

 

“If you are found guilty, you will have proven yourself unfit,” said Yohn. “We’d need not wait any longer to find that out.”

 

“My lords, I fear that Lord Royce’s statements today only leave me more confused about why I am here. How am I to prove my innocence if I am not presented with the mistaken proof of wrongdoing? I must needs hear something to dispute.”

 

Bronze Yohn tried to move the trial along, “The next to confirm the accusations is Maester Coleman.”

 

Maester Coleman disclosed that Lord Petyr had ordered him to give Robert Arryn sweetsleep and even pushed for a near-lethal dose.

 

“To spare him of his shaking sickness!” Petyr responded, with an exasperated tone. “I am no maester, but the mixture of sweetsleep and milk seemed to help my stepson. Of course I encouraged Maester Coleman to give him more of the remedy. I was trying to care for his tender constitution.”

 

“But, my lord, you harangued me for an unsafe amount. Sweetsleep doesn’t leave the blood.”

 

Baelish responded, “You prove my statement, maester. I don’t know about blood in the way you do. If you knew the potion dangerous, why did you not tell me?”

 

“I tried, my lord. I did, but you. . .”

 

“But I what?” Petyr added a harshness to his voice. “What could be more important than our lord’s health? Have you been intending to harm Lord Robert? Maesters have lost their chains for less incompetence!”

 

_My hands are clean in this, you old sheep. When I resume control, you will feel my justice._

 

“And now you’ve been heard, Littlefinger,” Lord Yohn countered. “And who next wishes to level accusations against this man?”

 

The Lords Declarant looked at each other.

 

_For all the bargaining and organization it must have taken to form your alliance to cast me out, did you ever discuss meaningful charges against me?_

 

Lady Randa stepped forward, but instead of mentioning her murdered father, she accused Baelish of abducting Sansa Stark for his own pleasures. To which, Littlefinger replied, “Have I forced her into my bed? She is still a maiden, as no less than _three_ septas will attest to.”

 

Baelish added, “What else should I have done, my lady? Leave her to the Lannisters? Foremost, I brought the girl to her Aunt Lysa, which was no easy task. Who can doubt my honorable intent?”

 

_Why would it be you to step forward and accuse me of kidnapping Sansa? My sweet girl is here in this hall. These lords will ask themselves, “Why is the allegation coming from Randa Royce? If the charges had merit, why not Sansa herself, her uncle, or even the bastard brother?”_

 

He itched to tell them outright, but knew it was better to let them reach the conclusion on their own.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa was called forward next. Conflicted about condemning the man who twice saved her life, she found it hard to hate him. Sansa would have rather been left out of the trial altogether.

 

She patiently told them about her escape aboard Petyr’s ship.

 

 “And, no. Petyr never attempted to bed me.” Out of her own embarrassment, she did not address his other advances.

 

 _Keeping silent is not the same as a lie,_ she told herself. _Will I mention Aunt Lysa’s death? No. She tried to kill me. Why should I seek justice for her? Lady Lysa received her justice._

 

Only half listening to Petyr speaking, Sansa remembered what her aunt said in her final minutes. _Were her words any more than mad ramblings? Can I even be sure that I understood them? Should Lord Petyr be judged on words that I am uncertain of?_

 

“. . .safety not worth the life of a disgraced knight-turned jester, who had already sold her freedom once, without regret?”

 

* * *

* * *

 

Lord Yohn stood and claimed Petyr had slain his cousin, Lord Nestor.

 

“My lords, I have no training in arms. Can you possibly believe that I overpowered a man such as the Lord of the Gate?

 

“And why would I? He was my staunchest supporter, for which _I_ granted him his hereditary lordship. Lord Yohn claims that Lord Nestor was plotting behind my back. I say he was an honorable man and that Yohn Royce should be ashamed of his attempts to sully the name of a noble, fallen man.

 

“But isn’t the culprit obvious?” Petyr asked the assembly. He let all in attendance look at each other in silence.

 

He resumed, “Is it simply a coincidence that the very night Jon _Snow_ scaled Lord Nestor’s walls, his lordship is murdered? Which of us is more likely to have killed him?”

 

Petyr’s cat-like grin flashed for a moment.

 

“Though, my lords,” he said. “The most likely explanation is an unfortunate confusion. Lord Nestor saw only a cloaked rogue climbing his walls and the boy saw only a barrel-chested guard attempting to kill him. From the excessive nature of the wounds, I have to think the boy acted on instinct alone.”

 

Randa and Ser Albar fumed.

 

“And stabbed him in the back?!” Jon yelled from behind.

 

Littlefinger turned and saw Sansa put her hand on his arm. _Good girl. Calm him._

 

Jon pushed back his chair and stood. “May I speak before my lords, and my ladies?”

 

Petyr smiled. “You have only met me this very day? Are you so eager to accuse me of baseless blame?”

 

The bastard glared at him. “I did not kill Lord Nestor. He was the one who admitted me through the barred, iron door between the wallwalk and the stairs to the yard. I have no doubt that _you_ stabbed him to make _your_ escape up those very steps.”

 

Baelish calmly replied, “There was a girl, Ser Brynden’s natural daughter, whom I attempted to protect when I couldn’t be sure what was happening amidst a storm of confusion. When I last saw Lord Nestor, he was alive. She was with me then. Mayhaps, Ser Brynden would be so good as to bring her out to dispute my statement, if she recalls the events any differently?”

 

“Lord Petyr, we agreed that she’ll have no part in today’s trial,” the Blackfish said, sternly.

 

_Oh Brynden, do think I’ve forgotten? I only mention her to imply that her absence is akin to her concurrence. These lords will ask themselves, “Wouldn’t Yohn and Brynden bring her out if she would refute Petyr’s claims?” You cannot show her here without risking someone realizing who she actually is, but of course no one else knows this._

 

“Lord Baelish,” the bastard brother addressed him. “Did you betray my father, Lord Eddard Stark? Did you turn him over to a false king, an abomination born of incest, with a knife to his throat?”

 

Next to him, Sansa’s lips silently mouthed the word, “ _Father_.”

 

The court erupted in outrage. For a moment, Littlefinger’s face betrayed his shock. The slip was so brief that he doubted that anyone who did not know him well would have noticed it.

 

_That stupid wench, Cersei. She probably told every errand boy she took into her bed about that. Of course word would spread. I should have planned for this._

 

Ned Stark was remembered fondly as a ward in the Vale, the quiet and serious counter-balance to Robert Baratheon’s jovial trouble-making.

 

“You knew of Joffrey’s origin,” continued Ser _Snow._ “And still you sold my father to a queen who thought nothing of breaking her marriage vows and bedding her own brother. You claim to have been Sansa’s savior from peril, but with all I know of you, I have to wonder if her danger was not of your creation as well.”

 

“And why ever would you think that?” Petyr tried to regain his light tone. _Your demeanor, your words, everything has to tell these soft-headed lords that the charges, the trial, all of it, are not to be taken seriously. Unless, Lord Petyr, you yourself should wish to make it more serious. . ._

 

Jon answered, “It’s true. I saw it on your face, and you’d be a fool to underestimate these lords and believe them not quick enough to see it too.”

 

_Clever phrasing, my boy. But one comment does not make you my equal._

 

“I saw, just as you did, Ser Jon.”

 

The crowd turned to Bronze Yohn and many nodded their heads to him.

 

_A scratch. Not even deep enough to call a wound._

 

Petyr thought of an answer, “Yes, I did take Lord Ned into custody, but not as you say I did. My surprise was at how poorly you were informed. Lannister men killed every guard at Ned’s side. I took hold of him so that those beasts wouldn’t. As strong a man as he was, our Ned was still recovering from the previous Lannister attack. The last words he said to me before being escorted away from my grasp were to _thank me_ for my actions. He said, ‘Take care of my daughter. Get her away from them.’ No one could have predicted King Joffrey’s treachery, but if Lord Ned lived, I know he’d greet me as a loyal friend.”

 

“Liar!” the boy shouted. “You promised to bring him the City Watch, but you paid them to turn on him!”

 

_This one is remarkably well-informed._

 

“Utter non-sense, my lords. I did no such thing. In my last question, I asked you why you would believe these false tales. Who told you all of this rubbish?”

 

Jon’s glare receded and he looked unsure of himself.

 

Lord Yohn, too, wished for an answer. “Ser Jon, how did you come by this information?”

 

“Sandor Clegane.”

 

An uproar spread to every corner of the hall.

 

_That is either a terrible lie, or a truth you should have replaced with one._

 

When Ser Brynden and Lord Yohn finally got the audience composed, Petyr seized the opportunity. “As you all seem to agree, the Lannisters’ Hound is the opposite of a reliable source. And thus, every accusation against me has, by now, been shown to be without merit, my lords. _Let us now turn to a new discussion._ ”

 

“You cannot trick your way out of this, Baelish,” said Jon _Snow_ , this outburst with markedly less intrepidity than his previous one.

 

_That is precisely what I am about to do, boy. Listen and learn, though you won’t have the chance to make use of the lesson._

 

Offering no response to Ser Jon, Petyr said, “We have not yet discussed a more obvious crime, my lords. Three, in fact. All perpetrated in this very hall.”

 

_Choke on this, bastard._

 

“The murders of three noble knights sworn to Lord Robert’s service. Ser Shadrich of Shady Glen, Ser Creighton Longbough, and Ser Illifer.”

 

 “No, no! They attacked me. _You_ probably ordered it!”

 

_And I did, of course. You started shouting for my Sansa all the way from the gates to the courtyard. I sent them after you before I even knew who you were._

_But why should that matter now? So like your father, holding up some truth like a shield only to discover that words are wind and that wind will not protect you._

 

The Blackfish tried to defend him, “Ser Jon would never-”

 

“Would never what?” interrupted Lord Corbray. “Kill three knights? Half the castle saw him and that beast do it. We all heard about it.”

 

“I remain the Lord Protector of the Vale, do I not?” asked Lord Petyr. “If we are done with my trial, my innocence beyond doubt, then I must turn my attention to getting justice for Lord Robert’s knights.”

 

Lord Yohn tried to settle the crowded assembly and to re-focus its gaze back onto Littlefinger, but Lord Corbray, Ser Lyn, and others took up Petyr’s cause. Lord Yohn said something about how Baelish hadn’t proven anything, but the noise in the hall swallowed the sound of his words.

 

The Stark bastard was stunned. Castle guards calmly surrounded him and that direwolf.

 

Petyr struggled to gain the guards’ attention. Once they turned, Baelish instructed them, “The boy must be confined until we can try him! And that beast chained!”

 

Lord Lyonel and his brother echoed Petyr’s commands loudly.

 

Littlefinger turned and looked Bronze Yohn in the eyes. The burly lord was agitated and at a loss. Petyr’s face gave no hint of his thoughts.

 

_You thought to have me in chains by mid-day and hung before supper. Did you forget with whom you were playing? Authority, titles: just wind and parchment without control. You opened this hall for all see and thus gave every man in here a voice, a sliver of power. You may have the greatest portion, but I united the rest of the pie against you. An old name and your silly, ancient armor will not protect you in my arena, in my jousting lists. In this room, I am champion and king._

 

Jon was reluctant to hand over his sword, but once the guards took hold of it, the boy knew he’d lost. They bound his hands behind his back. He turned to his half-sister. _Plead with those cold eyes, boy. You’ll find no warmth in that direction. The girl has been mine for months._

 

Petyr had executed his plan to win her hand and her adoration to perfection. He’d lost her mother because he chose the wrong weapons for his first fight. Brandon Stark defeated him soundly with his sword, but Stark later discovered the sharpness of Littlefinger’s weapon of choice.

 

* * *

 

Brandon Stark had been on his way to Riverrun to wed Catelyn Tully. It was Petyr’s last chance to act.

 

Rumor of Lyanna Stark’s disappearance was spreading quickly among the smallfolk. Petyr paid more attention to such talk than any highborn lord did. Even at five-and-ten, he understood the power of such knowledge. On their route to Riverrun, Brandon’s riding party was easy to find, they drew the interest of every village they bedded down in. Petyr knew his adversary would soon hear that his sister was missing and Baelish made sure that Stark heard a _certain version_ of the tale, rather than any other. Three coppers to a tavern girl he’d never seen before was the price of Brandon Stark’s head. The girl told him exactly what Petyr instructed her to.

 

Like the rest of the realm, Baelish knew Rhaegar Targaryen had crowned Brandon’s sister as the Queen of Love and Beauty at the Harrenhal tourney. That her disappearance was due to Prince Rhaegar kidnapping her seemed a believable lie. She might have fallen from her horse and died for all Petyr knew. _The best lies contain a sliver of truth. No doubt his blood had boiled at the implication that his sister was the prince’s whore; Rhaegar Targaryen had chosen to overlook his own wife to place the crown of blue roses in Lyanna Stark’s lap. Hearing that his sister was taken against her will played into what Stark was inclined to believe, all but confirming what I wanted him to think._

 

He’d expected the hot-headed Brandon to ride to King’s Landing demanding to duel the crowned prince. In Baelish’s scheme, a champion from the Kingsguard was supposed to face him. Barristan Selmy, Jamie Lannister, Arthur Dayne, or Lewyn Martell would have served his purpose.

 

Stark’s death would come to pass as a different sort, but one just as effective. A lie turned out to be no lie at all. But in the end, it was not enough. Petyr hadn’t gone far enough, hadn’t shaped the circumstances to fruition.

 

Lord Petyr Baelish refused to make the same mistake with the daughter.

 

_I saved her from Joffrey’s brutality. I spared her a marriage to the Imp, the ugliest nobleman in the Seven Kingdoms. I kept her beyond the reach of Cersei’s reprisal. I am the hero any girl would wish for._

_Through her lessons on intrigue, I proved to her my brilliance. My appearance and manners are impeccable, and even my breath smells sweet._

_No, bastard. She will not come to your aid. Not if it means crossing me._

 

 “Sansa,” Jon pleaded.

 

_What do you expect her to do? Take up arms in your defense, bastard? Best you go with the guards while I figure out if you are anything more than worthless._

 

“Wait!”

 

Sansa’s eyes were closed, but her voice had never been louder in Littlefinger’s hearing. “My lords! You are going to try Ser Jon for murdering those knights. He killed them, we all know he did. However, he says that _they_ attacked _him_ , not the reverse. Ser Jon said that he believes Lord Baelish was behind the assault.”

 

_Oh, Sansa. You need not condemn him yourself. My head and my freedom are already secure._

_On the other hand, his existence insults your dear mother’s memory. Who could expect you to bear her burden now. Your real brothers are dead and only a pitiful bastard remains. You have my understanding for wishing him dead, and soon. . . you’ll have my comfort._

 

“The three knights he fought are dead,” she said, building to her point. “Thus his fate hangs on Lord Petyr’s word. What if Lord Baelish’s word was proven false in other matters? Would that sway you to believe Ser Jon?”

 

Lord Yohn answered in an instant, “Yes, my lady!”

 

Ser Brynden agreed, and Ser Symond Templeton after him.

 

Petyr couldn’t take the chance that she’d accidentally let slip more than she should. “My lady, you need not fear overmuch for your father’s natural son. He will be judged justly.”

 

“Alayne, what could you say that would be of any use here?” asked Lord Lyonel Corbray.

 

“As all in this hall should have heard by now, my name is Sansa Stark, my lord. And I know more than you of the goings on in the Vale.” Her voice was steady, but her body shied away from the attention.

 

_Sweetling, I shall have to teach you how to address a court at large, once I’ve made clean this mess._

 

“I know troubling things about Littlefinger,” Sansa announced. Ser Brynden gave her a nod. She lifted her chin and resumed, “The story he told, and I went along with, was a lie.”

 

_You’re worrying me, my sweet girl._

 

* * *

* * *

 

The more Sansa thought of how he had looked at her bare form, the more she realized about his intentions.

 

 _Ser Harry’s injuries, Petyr’s convenient or fateful positioning to become my savior, his professed love of my mother. . ._ The doubt that had warred within her for weeks was withering.

 

_This has all been Petyr’s doing._

 

 _The Lannisters granted him a lordship,_ she recalled. _The Tyrells . . .He told me he knew of Lady Olenna’s plans for Joffrey’s wedding. I hated Joffrey and he deserved to die, but that is still murder and Petyr still had a hand in it._

 

She also recalled Petyr’s words to her back in the Eyrie, “What is best for Robert the lord is not always best for Robert the boy.”

 

_If he plans to marry me to an “incapable” Ser Harry, does he. . . no. . ._

 

The idea made her nauseous.

 

_He wants to get a bastard on me and pass it off as Ser Harry’s child. No other scheme fits. He’ll then kill off both Sweetrobin and Harrold Hardyng and claim the Vale, and mayhaps the North, through the bastard he’ll coerce me into carrying for him._

 

* * *

* * *

 

“Petyr Baelish murdered Lady Lysa Arryn," Petyr heard Sansa announce. "He pushed her out the Moon Door. She was mad and wished me harm, but I was safe when he killed her. She loved him. Littlefinger used her and disposed of her.”

 

“My lady, think on what you are saying,” he urged.

 

“I am, my lord. You’ve appeared to do me kindnesses, but I have come to believe that you only saved me from dangers that _you_ thrust me into.”

 

“What? No, I. . .”

 

_I planned no defense from you, my love. I made you my own, but didn’t think to account for you turning on me in any of my machinations._

 

“In her final words-”

 

“Stop this! Stop this folly, right this instant!” Petyr looked into her eyes, but saw no fear, no deference.

 

“In her final words, my aunt said that Petyr told her to put something in her lord husband’s wine. Not Petyr’s. . . _Lord Jon Arryn’s_!”

 

The crowd was stunned into silence and after a moment’s pause, she said, “I don’t know what it was, but I am sure it was something wrong. A poison of some kind. And she said that she did it for him, for Petyr.”

 

“In the same breath, you call my dear lady wife mad and a murderer?! How dare you! How dare you slander her good name!”

 

“You pushed her, Petyr. You did. You tricked her into killing Lord Arryn and then killed her yourself.”

 

“Lies, I say,” called Ser Lyn Corbray. “We know her brother as a killer and now we see her try and lie him free. It will do the two of you no good.”

 

“Gold and boys and promises, ser.” She stared at Ser Lyn and even Petyr could see the blood drain from Corbray’s face.

 

“Lady Sansa,” asked Lord Yohn. “What does that mean?”.

 

She answered, “Those are the rewards Petyr gave Ser Lyn to buy his loyalty. The worst of it, Petyr called, ‘the misery of little boys.’ He didn’t act like it was worth worrying over. No more than the coin.”

 

“Lies!” snarled Ser Lyn. “The bitch swore that singer killed Lady Lysa. She lied then or she lies now! She’s proved herself a liar!”

 

Lady Waynwood interrupted Corbray, “Her claim is easily refuted. Send riders to Ser Lyn’s holdfast near Heart’s Home.”

 

Lyn Corbray got to his feet and looked poised to flee. Seeing no out, he drew his sword, Lady Forlorn. “I crossed swords with a knight of the Kingsguard at the Battle of the Trident and ended his life. If you mean to arrest me, show your steel and meet the same fate!”

 

“Now is not the time for madness!” shouted Bronze Yohn.

 

Four men from Lyonel Corbray’s guard grabbed Ser Lyn’s arms from behind. They wrenched his sword away without spilling blood. One presented the Valyrian steel to Ser Lyn’s elder brother and the other three guards forced the rogue knight from the hall. Lord Corbray looked at the blade with reverence and kept it out on the table in front of him.

 

_Seven bloody hells! He’d throw his new bride and the dowry I found for him off a mountain, in exchange for that sword. I’ll not be able to count on his tactless and dim-witted support any longer._

 

Petyr turned his attention back to the matter at hand. _My sweet Sansa._ “Why are you doing this? Saying these things?”

 

Her head snapped around, dyed brown hair swirling. “Because I realized the man you are. What Jon said was true, wasn’t it? The things the Hound told him. . . I can see that look in your eyes, Petyr. You pretended to be a father to me and it was you who betrayed my real father. Jon was right.

 

“And for speaking the truth, you mean to put Jon on trial for his life. I’d ask you why, if I thought you capable of an honest reply.”

 

_How can she bring herself to turn on me? After all I’ve done, I’ve earned her._

 

“Is there aught else, my lady?” asked Yohn.

 

 _What would that matter now?_ Petyr thought. _What else do you want of her?_

 

“Lord Corbray and Lady Waynwood are bought and paid for, in Lord Baelish’s thinking. Lord Lyonel with a young wife and a staggering dowry.”

 

“And what of me, girl?” questioned Anya Waynwood. “I’ve yet to receive mine own young bride.”

 

“Petyr bought up House Waynwood’s debts. The arrangement for Ser Harrold as my husband was part of the terms.”

 

“He did what?!” The regal Lady of Ironoaks lost her composure and screamed at Baelish, “You! You were behind my family’s near ruin?! My lords, Littlefinger claimed he could renegotiate with the lenders on my behalf, to use his pull as the former Master of Coin. You scheming worm!”

 

Lord Baelish knew the battle was lost, that he was all but toppled already. The lords were against him and any who might have still favored him would be scared to cross Lord Yohn and Lady Waynwood on his behalf.

 

_All that remains for me to do is to buy my escape. Yes! I’ll drown a savior in coin. Then! Then, I’ll find a way to get back at these betrayers. Oh, they’ll rue their choice to cross me! Every last one among them!_

 

* * *

* * *

 

Lords Royce, Corbray, and Redfort, Ser Templeton, and Lady Waynwood, in the eyes of gods and men, condemned Petyr Baelish of betraying Lord Stark and murdering Lord Nestor Royce.

 

Littlefinger shouted about betrayers, his powerful friends, and the riches that awaited any man who freed him, as the guards dragged him away. For all that his composure was leaving him, Lord Petyr looked certain that someone would later come to his aid.

 

“My lords,” Sansa heard Jon interrupt. “Perhaps Littlefinger is right.”

 

He allowed the crowded hall to murmur and waited for it to quiet.

 

“Might be he _does_ have powerful friends. Might be those friends are here in this hall. Why should we tempt them with a stay in the dungeons? I ask for the right to carry out his sentence now, in the snow, in the old way. My father’s way.”

 

Sansa saw the pleased look on Bronze Yohn’s face. Ser Brynden was rendered speechless.

 

In the yard, Petyr was forced to his knees and a wood block was placed before him.

 

“For your crimes against House Stark and House Royce,” Jon said, “I am prepared to carry out your sentence. Do you have any words you wish to say?”

 

_He looks so stern, so. . . like father._

 

Sansa watched Littlefinger’s eyes as they scanned the crowd venomously. “You highlords are so smug, thinking your blood makes you more than you are. I was born the grandson of a Braavosi sellsword, but I die as Lord of Harrenhal and Lord Paramount of the Trident, as Lord Protector of the Vale, and as one of the richest men in the Seven Kingdoms.

 

“Both daughters of Lord Hoster Tully happily relinquished their maidenheads to me." His grin showed with both pleasure and malice. "I outsmarted Tywin and Tyrion Lannister, and Queen Cersei of course, but that is hardly an achievement. And, every Tyrell alive, Robert Baratheon, Renly, our dear Ned, and . . . Jon Arryn.”

 

“Don’t!” ordered Ser Brynden.

 

Gleefully, he finished, “I gave the shriveled, old man horns for years and-”

 

“Don’t!” The Blackfish had to be restrained.

 

“Hmm. . . ‘ _What does it matter? Take my life. For all men must die and I’ve I tasted. . ._ ’ I am sure you can all fill in the rest of the song. And best of all-”

 

“Do it, Jon!” ordered the Blackfish. “Now!”

 

Jon’s first cut killed him and his second separated Petyr Baelish’s head from his body.

 

* * *

 

“Truthfully, I did not feel anything, Jon. He had such brilliance. He saved me and taught me of the games the highlords play. For that, I am grateful. But his wits were most often used for treachery. . . I suppose I’ll mourn him for his good deeds, and still believe he earned his execution with his misdeeds; as if he was neither wholly good nor evil. Does that. . .?”

 

Jon seemed to understand. She turned her gaze to the flickering tips of the hearth fire.

 

“I traveled with a man like that, for a time,” he said. “His past was rumored to include all manner of evil, but together we saved a girl from sellsword rapers and I might not have escaped King’s Landing without him.”

 

_Alike, indeed._

 

“And who was this, Jon? Was it. . .?” asked Sansa, anticipating the answer.

 

“Sandor Clegane.”

 

Her memory brought her back to the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. To the rasp of his voice. To the terrified and vulnerable look in his eyes. To the smell of wine and sweat, and to the feel of his lips.

 

“I knew him.”

 

“So he said.”

 

“He protected me and cared for me.” _And I for him_.

 

“From what he said, I thought as much. He told me that he kept Arya from running into the Twins the night they killed Robb and that he was injured on their way to the Saltpans. . . Are you still sure that you heard nothing of her?”

 

_Arya. Did the Hound aid her too?_

 

“Petyr told me of only a fake Arya. A peasant girl from King’s Landing that Cersei Lannister dressed up as our sister. I’ve heard nothing on the real Arya. On _our_ Arya. But. . . Is she alive, Jon? Did Sandor say where she might be?” Sansa asked desperately.

 

“Only that she likely sold her horse for passage on a ship. To where? The Blackfish didn’t find anyone who knew of her. The only destination Clegane could name, the Eyrie, is the only place we are sure she never arrived at.”

 

Sansa didn’t know how to feel. In truth, Jon’s news changed nothing. She still didn’t know if Arya was dead or just in danger. Either way, she had no way in which to find her. Sansa Stark also wondered where the Hound was and where he’d gone to, after traveling with Jon. But, she didn’t think that now was the time to ask about Sandor Clegane. _Jon seems to sense that I bear some affection for the Hound._

 

Her brother gave her shoulder a little push. “Sansa, this is not ill news. Arya survived the worst of the war, we know that. She escaped King’s Landing. Perhaps you and I wish for better news of her, but there is still hope.”

 

Sansa’s mouth arched into a tentative smile. _Hope._ She decided not to express any more of her worries that night and just to enjoy whatever small good could be drawn from what Jon told her. _Hope._


	33. Sansa - A Simple Supper

Sansa Stark entered the feasting hall at the Gates of the Moon alongside her brother, Ser Jon, and his direwolf, Ghost. The mood was far more jovial than it had been the last time Sansa walked into the room. _Was Petyr’s trial yesterday or a century ago?_

 

She looked at the dais and the empty lord’s chair. _Sweetrobin._ Knowing where Robert Arryn would seat himself when he arrived to sup, Sansa guided Jon to a smaller table along the wall and half-way to the opposite end of the hall. She had no desire for her brother to see how she was forced to act in her little cousin’s presence.

 

“This shall be fine, Jon,” she told him. He rounded the corner of the table and sat with his back to the stone wall. His wolf slid just under the end. Sansa flattened her dress and sat opposite him. 

 

She had spoken to her brother only briefly since he arrived. He’d been exhausted that first night and went to sleep not two minutes after arranging a make-shift cot for himself from her chairs and duck-feather cushions. After the trial and Petyr’s execution, they’d talked about her fake father, about their sister, and even mentioned the Hound. The air between them had been tense for every breath of that short talk. With Lord Petyr dead and all immediate threats to either of them gone for the present, Sansa felt she could relax and simply speak to her half-brother.

 

“I cannot get past how much he’s grown,” Sansa said and reached under the table to pet Ghost. “And that beard of yours, from whence did that sprout?”

 

“No doubt all these clean-cheeked Southrons envy it,” he replied, grinning. The men of the Vale certainly looked hardier than those of King’s Landing, but compared to the men she remembered from Winterfell, from stablehands to lords, they looked boyish. _Jon is undeniably boyish, no matter his lack of grooming._

 

“And you’ve grown as well,” Ser Jon said. “You’re nearly of height with me, though not quite. But what in the seven hells happened to your hair?”

 

_My beautiful auburn hair._

 

Jon looked into her eyes and lowered his voice, “Not that. . . Sansa, it’s just the color, is all. I didn’t mean. . .”

 

She schooled her face and assured, “Naught to be concerned over, ser. Dying my hair was a necessity to hide who I was. Petyr says that-” She caught herself. “Lord Baelish _used to_ insist that it looked too much like mother’s.”

 

“I suppose it did. Is the change permanent?”

 

She laughed. “Gods, Jon! Do you know anything of a woman’s hair? The dye will run its course. It’ll fade and grow out with time.”

 

Jon smiled and shrugged at her. Then, he raised his hand in the air. Sansa looked over her shoulder to see the thin, young woman with straight brown hair, across the hall.

 

“Minisa?” she questioned. “Jon, won’t she wish to sit with her father?”

 

“She is. . .” He furrowed his brow. “Just, can we allow her to sit with us? I think she'll wish to.”

 

Jon’s reaction was odd, but she agreed. “Of course, Jon. She is my natural cousin, in truth.”

 

When Minisa reached them, Jon made room on his bench for her and she shuffled in next to him.

 

Sansa looked at her bastard brother and her bastard cousin, “Ser and my lady, I think you’ll both enjoy tonight’s meal.”

 

When the first course was brought out, Sansa stood to serve the pair seated across from her. “This is a sheep-stock soup with long rice and goat’s cheese.” She ladled from the pot the serving girl held up, into three bowls. “And this flat-bread is something we routinely have in the Vale. It’s seared on a skillet, rather than baked in an oven, which gives it its unique texture.”

 

“My lady,” Sansa heard from behind her. “Another bowl, if you would.”

 

A tall, young woman with ink-black hair and clothes of dubious cleanliness took the place beside her.

 

“Of course, Mya,” Sansa replied. She finished pouring and dismissed the serving girl. “Ser Jon, Lady Minisa, this is Mya Stone. She’s a close friend of Randa Royce and a part of Lord Nestor’s household.”

 

"His household no longer," Mya said, stifling any further greetings. "Lord Nestor is dead. I can hope that this will become _Albar’s_ household, but like as not that’ll be stolen from him, and from us, as well. Randa’s with him and those older cousins of theirs, Lord Yohn and Ser Andar. ‘ _A family supper,’_ I was informed. It's as if those two, _Runestone_ Royces think no one else in the castle mourns the man.” She tore into her bread.

 

“You have our sympathies,” said Jon. “For your loss and theirs.”

 

Mya looked up at him and sighed her thanks.

 

Feeling like the hostess at their table, Sansa was irked by the strained affect and considered herself remiss in her duties. She didn’t know how to begin a polite conversation after Mya’s glum introductions.

 

They remained mostly silent until the main course was brought out. The primary dish was a plate of a gurma sausages, steamed buns, and a fried side-helping of dates, gourd, and carrots.

 

“Jon and Minisa, tonight’s offerings look to be fare unique to the mountainous regions of the Vale. The cured meats are made from sheep and cow.”

 

Sansa watched her brother try to stab one of his sausages with his fork. “Jon, you shouldn’t-” The meat skipped across his plate. “The outer skin is salted and dried weeks before the kitchens fry the outsides, it’s-” He was only half listening to her and began sawing it crossways.

 

“Jon,” she tried to gain his attention. “Jon!”

 

He looked up with his mouth agape and his fork nearing it.

 

“You do not eat the skin.”

 

“Oh.” He scraped the chunk from his fork and tried to stab the rest of that link. It flew from his plate and landed in front of Minisa. 

 

“Jon?” Sansa waited for him to make eye contact.

 

Glancing down at her own meal, she held a sausage in place with her fork. Slowly, she ran her knife along the top. The meat burst apart with the trail of her blade. She flipped it over and repeated the cut on the other side. Once sliced open, the tough skin was easy with her fork. 

 

“See, Jon? If you do it properly-” She felt a push against the inside of her elbow. With a flash of white fur, the skinned sausage vanished from her plate.

 

Jon laughed and Sansa began cutting a second link. This time, she didn’t try to demonstrate anything; she cut in the practiced motion of someone who’d spent months in the Vale. “I know we never ate this in Winterfell, but I happen to recall that you learned table manners just as-”

 

In an attack as fast as his direwolf’s, Jon stabbed her gurma sausage and stole it. With his mouth half full of his sister’s supper, Jon grinned. “You have your way, _my lady sister_ , but I prefer Ghost’s. Much easier.”

 

Sansa groaned in response and threw her handkerchief at him. “As I was _about to say,_ I do recall that you learned table manners, just as I did.”

 

“Oh, you can't blame me. The thing was infuriating. And! And, I’ve not eaten this Vale meat before.”

 

Sansa crossed her arms. “I too had trouble with these sausages the first time I ate them, but you didn’t see me acting like a boorish clansman on that night. Gods, Jon!”

 

Mya glanced from Sansa to Jon, then burst into abrupt laughter. She slapped the table and snorted. Jon matched her laughs with his own, and Minisa quietly smiled along. Sansa tried to keep her stern glare at her ill-mannered brother, but couldn’t.

 

“You’ve quite the pet, ser,” Mya said. “I do believe you take after him.” She picked up a sausage in her hand and stood it up, lengthwise, on her plate. She drove the tip of her knife into the end of the link, splitting it in two.

 

“My lady?” Jon directed at Sansa. _That sounds so wholly formal, to hear that address from Jon. . . 'My lady'._ “Are you not going to instruct _her_ on the proper way to cut the sausage? Or, is etiquette required only of my side of the table?”

 

She said, “Mya happens to be as stubborn as her charges. I challenge _you_ to make her do things in any manner but her own.”

 

“Well, ser,” Mya Stone spoke up. “I do respect your fondness for your wolf. . . leaving off any traits you share with him.”

 

Sansa added, “And she, at the least, has the decency to finish her mouthful before beginning to speak.”

 

Jon nodded at his sister, but Mya kept her eyes on him.

 

“Jon?” Sansa heard Minisa ask. “Would you?” She gestured at her plate. Jon nodded and did his best to follow Sansa’s demonstration on how to cut the sheep-sausage.

 

The way she asked was overly familiar and close to inappropriate, in Sansa’s eyes. _Who is this bastard girl? Why is Jon so accommodating, so. . . brotherly?_

 

“Alayne?”

 

Sansa spun around to find Lord Robert staring at her.

 

“I heard laughing,” he said.

 

_Am I prohibited from laughter outside of your presence, my lord?_

 

“Lord Sweetrobin, I told you my true name. Do you recall it?”

 

“Alayne Stone,” he insisted.

 

“I am Sansa Stark, my lord. Now, I am simply eating my supper and speaking with my brother, Ser Jon, with Mya, you know her, and with Lady Minisa Rivers.”

 

“He doesn’t look like a knight,” Robert said with contempt. “Mya is smelly, and ‘Rivers’ means ‘bastard’, I know that.”

 

“My lord,” she said, trying to sound stern.

 

He resisted, “You’re _my_ friend! I don’t want to share and I don’t have to. I am Lord of the Eyrie!” Robert Arryn stepped into Sansa. She felt his belly touch her knees. His arms wrapped around her and, before she could say anything more, his face nuzzled into her bosom.

 

“Robert Arryn!” Jon shouted.

 

Sansa and Sweetrobin both froze at the resounding tone.

 

“You will stop that this very minute, boy.” The statement was lower in volume, but more menacing in timbre.

 

“Jon,” she began. “It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing.”

 

“No.” He stepped around the table and took hold of Sweetrobin’s arm. Jon looked her in the eye. “That was far from nothing. It _does_ matter. You. . .”

 

 _You do matter_ , she longed to hear, but he couldn’t manage to say it.

 

“I’m the lord! I’ll make you fly!” Robert shouted as Jon led him away from Sansa. She motioned to Jon, _Be careful!_

 

_Oh, please don't start a shaking fit. . ._

 

“Fly? That’d be a bloody good trick, _my lord_. You have my leave. Go ahead,” Jon said and took a step back. He spread his arms out wide and flapped them once. “Make me fly, whatever magic you must needs to use, proceed.”

 

Robert looked around, confused. _No one has ever responded like that to him._

 

Jon had heard far more tales of their father’s childhood adventures in the Eyrie than Sansa ever did.  _Jon must know of the Moon Door. He's only playing at ignorance._

 

“Not here, up there!” Robert pointed to the ceiling, which wasn't far from the correct direction. “In the _Eyrie!_ " _  
_

 

“If we have to go up to the Eyrie so I may fly, does my lord plan to carry me himself?" Jon asked sweetly. "No? Too much snow? I concede to talk about this matter of flying again. . . _in spring_. Perhaps by then, this infant I see before me will have begun to act like an _older boy_.”

 

“I’m no  _infant!_ I’m older!”

 

Sansa saw a tremble begin in Sweetrobin’s arms. She reached out and rubbed his back. The shaking did not take hold of the rest of him.

 

“Oh, you are?” asked Jon, quieting his voice and calming his tone. “Well, do you know why I thought you were just a little, little child?”

 

Jon gave him a brief pause, but didn't allow Robert enough time to begin any more complaints. “No? Well, I’ll inform you. An _older boy_ doesn’t pretend to suckle like a baby pig. An _older boy_ knows how to be polite and quiet whilst his guests are speaking at the table, even if he isn’t listening.”

 

The irony of her chastisement of Jon’s table manners being interrupted by him giving the same type of lesson to Lord Robert wasn’t lost on Sansa. She held her tongue, though, and watched him with the entitled boy.

 

“Do you know who I am?” he asked Sweetrobin. “I am a knight from a far off castle. I sailed the Summer Sea. I fought corsairs. I’ve defeated knights in battle. I've had adventures enough for a man thrice my age. My eyes have seen much, young lord. I know what makes a babe into a boy and a boy into a man. Do you want the knights that come to see you to think that you’re a boy acting like a suckling newborn? _Or,_ ” he stressed, “a boy acting like a squire, like one who wants to be a knight someday?

 

“Which is it, little Robert?” Jon asked, sounding earnest.

 

“Huh?”

 

Jon made an exaggerated sigh. “Do you want people to think you are acting like a baby _or_ like a _knight?_ ”

 

The boy’s answer shot from his mouth, “A knight!”

 

“Good! Then it’s a deal,” Jon finished. He spit on the palm of his hand and extended it to Robert.

 

The boy-lord stuck out his tongue, licked his palm, and stepped forward to clasp Jon’s hand.

 

“Good, good. So now I have your word as to what you’ll no longer do: nuzzle girls, interrupt your guests, and certainly not to cry out about making people ‘fly. ’” Jon kept a straight face and nodded to the others around the hall now watching him and Sweetrobin. “Glad to have your sworn oath, my lord.”

 

Robert stood in place, stunned by what he’d just agreed to.

 

Sansa joined her hands together in her lap, praying that no one burst into laughter and ruined Jon’s ruse. She waved over Maddy, one of the little lord’s caretakers. Sansa gestured for the girl to escort Sweetrobin back to his quarters. He was poised to refuse, until he saw Jon inspecting his actions.

 

Watching him leave, Sansa wondered if Robert Arryn would behave himself even until supper on the morrow. Yet, she couldn’t deny Jon’s effectiveness at that moment, if only for the nonce.

 

“Sansa,” Jon caught her off guard. “Don’t look so bewildered after seeing me out-fox a boy of eight. Robb and I said something of the like to Bran once, to get him to stop making off with our things.”

 

_Bran. Robb._

 

Sansa had no desire to fall prey to her own grief. _Not tonight. On this night, I will be cheerful. I will._

 

Mya applauded from her seat and Sansa joined in. Still on his feet, Jon turned and gave them a mock curtsy. Mya Stone guffawed next to her, while Sansa looked down at her plate and chuckled.

 

The rest of the hall turned back to their meals and Sansa tried to kindle some pleasant conversation. “Minisa, so you were raised at Riverrun?”

 

She looked up at Sansa and then over to Jon.

 

“Yes, she was,” he answered on her behalf.

 

“And your father?” interjected Mya. “Is the Blackfish?”

 

“Yes,” Minisa said.

 

Mya Stone persisted, “How old are you? It’d be damned hard to father a child in the Riverlands while acting as the Knight of the Gate in the Vale.”

 

Jon shot back, “Minisa is eight-and-ten, Lady Mya. She was born before King Robert’s Rebellion, before Ser Brynden escorted his niece to the Eyrie. You and I are bastard-born too. And, a bastard should know better than to prod into another’s parentage. Aye?”

 

Mya cast an irritated glance at Minisa, then nodded to Jon.

 

“Alright,” he said, looking back at the food on the table and resuming his meal. Sansa caught Mya Stone eyeing Jon and didn’t miss the older girl’s smirk.

 

Sansa yearned to erase any tension that might linger. “Ser Jon, you told Lord Robert that you sailed the Summer Sea and fought off pirates. I’d be interested to hear the tale of that adventure, as I’m sure our companions would.”

 

Jon’s eyes met his sister’s. His mouth hung open for a moment.

 

 _Do not be silly or stupid,_ she scolded herself. _That must have been for Robert’s sake. Jon wouldn’t have done anything like that. He was only supposed to be gone for two months. . . or was it two weeks? Wherever he ended up, stop being such a child, Sansa._

 

To her surprise, he said, “I had many adventures, Sansa. Most would either not be of interest to you, or else not appropriate for polite company. Hmm. . .” Jon paused to think something through. Sansa saw him glimpse his white direwolf stalking the dish of honeyed pheasant wings at the edge of the table.

 

“Qarth. . . I was in Qarth for two days. Ladies, the city is hot and the sun clings to every stone and grain of sand. There, I saw highborn travelers from all the cities of the old Ghiscari Empire. The ladies from such places wear intricate dresses that wrap around their bodies. They string bells or jewels or other adornments to the fringes. The lands that far into Essos bear little natural life and no variety of color at all. The nobles come from more places than you could fit on a map, and they almost make up for the drab land with their colorful mode of dress. They have this mannerly, practiced method of stepping so as not to rip their. . . I cannot recall the name of the style of attire, but Sansa, you understand.”

 

Jon looked to her. _Is he seeking my approval of his little account?_ She smiled at her half-brother. Qarth sounded interesting. Sansa Stark knew nothing of that far-flung city, but she imagined a wondrous place filled with beautiful foreign gowns, polite travelers in sunny markets, and pictured olive-skinned Qartheen ladies. _I thought King’s Landing wondrous once. As far off as it is, at least Qarth would be free of the scheming and cruelty of the Red Keep._

 

Sansa said, “I look forward to hearing more stories of your travels, Ser Jon.”

 

“As you wish,” he nodded to her and added, “my lady.”

 

She grinned at how oddly refined it felt to hear her bastard, older brother call her, _my lady._

 

After the remainder of their meal together, Mya went off to find Randa and Albar. Jon stopped Sansa from going with her and asked, “May we speak? You and I, and also _Minisa_?”

 

 _Why did he emphasize her name so oddly?_ “Yes, Jon. The room that. . . Lord Baelish used as his solar should be empty.”

 

* * *

 

 _Even in private, this girl - Minisa Rivers - stands so as to almost hide behind Jon,_ Sansa thought. He didn’t seem particularly fond of the girl. But, Sansa couldn’t ignore the diligence with which he watched out for Minisa. _But it looks almost . . . instinctive._

 

Jon’s shoulders hunched and he rubbed his brow. _This is some serious matter,_ she realized. _But what important talk might we have with this stranger present?_

 

“Sansa,” he began, but stopped.

 

“Jon,” she said as reassuringly as she could. “If you mean to converse privately, I could escort Lady Rivers to her father.”

 

He scowled at her. “This is not the Blackfish’s daughter.”

 

She waited for him to explain.

 

“She’s no true bastard, she is. . . Jeyne Westerling.”

 

_Jeyne Westerling?_

 

“Robb’s. . ?” she asked, uncertain of how to address her.

 

“Aye, but it wouldn't do for anyone else to know of it.”

 

 _Jon, obviously not._ “No, it wouldn't. She’s been travelling with you? How did. . ?”

 

Jeyne stood in place, motionless.

 

Jon paced closer to Sansa and away from Jeyne. “She escaped Riverrun with Ser Brynden," he recounted. "We traveled together, us three, for a short time. After, she and the Blackfish voyaged here. And I. . . made my way to King’s Landing, looking for you.”

 

Sansa brooded over the thin girl with round hips standing before her.  _This was Robb’s queen?_

 

After taking a moment to look her over more thoroughly, any combative inclinations drifted from her mind. Sansa’s heart began to soften toward her brother’s bride. _She’s been displaced and is so far from her home. Where is her family? Were they murdered too? Are Jon and I. . . the only kin left to her?_ Sansa Stark then realized that even if the young woman had family members left to her, they were likely hundreds of leagues away. 

 

“Sansa, if you would just. . ." Jon sighed. "I'm not sure. Just be kind to her, help her.”

 

“Yes, Jon. And doubtless, I can do more than that.” Sansa walked over to Jeyne’s corner of the room. “It is a pleasure to meet you, _Minisa_. I am sure that, in time, we will be as good as sisters, you and I.” She embraced her good-sister and Jeyne held her tightly, as if she’d been yearning for any affection for months.

 

“But. . . Lady Sansa, my name is Jeyne. It's only _us_ here.”

 

“I know.” She stepped back and took Jeyne's hands in her own. “You must remember to be _Minisa Rivers_ with everyone, even in private. This is no easy task, I know that.” Sansa remembered how difficult becoming, and especially _remaining_ , Alayne Stone had been. “Be Ser Brynden’s natural daughter at all hours of the day. No, _more than that_ ,” she corrected. “Be that girl even at night, even as you sleep. You’ll have to remind yourself, but I’ll be here to assist you.”

 

Jeyne looked defeated.

 

“It won't be forever," she assured. "Even with us and even by yourself, be who you must. Yes?”

 

“But Jon knows. And Ser Brynden. With them, can't I. . ?”

 

 _“No._ Jon doesn’t know this castle or the household. Uncle Brynden. . . I doubt he has ever had to perform such a deception in his life. When you’ll be most like to slip, Jeyne, is when you are with them. Please. . . I know best. Yes?”

 

Jon put a hand on her shoulder, and Jeyne promised not to falter.

 

_This lady was Robb’s wife._

 

Sansa resolved to guide and protect her good-sister. _For Robb's sake._  She offered Jeyne a reassuring smile and gave her hands a quick squeeze.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All thoughts and comments are welcome, thanks!


	34. Jon Connington - A Siege and a Sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who continues to read and comment on this story. Hope you enjoy!

“The thickest stone and the tallest towers are no stronger than the men guarding them, Aegon.”

 

Remembering to use the prince’s true name was important for Jon Connington. It reminded him, and the boy he raised as a son, who _Young Griff_ really was.

 

Connington and Aegon Targaryen sat in the upper most level of Stormlord Keep. Their capture of Storm’s End was far from bloodless, but still remarkably fast.

 

* * *

 

Mace Tyrell had been sitting in siege around the fortress, before he brought nearly his entire host to King’s Landing. He left a garrison of three hundred men, if that many, under the charge of his bannerman, Lord Mathis Rowan. At the sight of the army about to engulf him, Lord Rowan yielded the camp and his command. He was taken captive, along with all his men. The ships blocking the access to the castle from Shipbreaker Bay, part of either Mace Tyrell’s fleet or Paxter Redwyne’s, set sail when the Golden Company took over the siege.

 

In name, Stannis Baratheon still held Storm’s End, but the surrendered Reachmen indicated that the castle’s garrison numbered less than two hundred. None of whom made any countermove when Connington’s forces rolled their three, thundering onagers within range. They’d built them on the march from Griffin’s Roost, under the direction of the Golden Company’s head-armourer, a battle-hardened Qohorik. The five elephants that had landed with the Golden Company proved useful in towing the huge, wheeled armaments and the boulders they collected on the march. In the shadow of Connington’s onagers, Mace Tyrell’s score of catapults looked little more than wooden slings.

 

They began the siege by hurling stones, one siege engine on each of the three fronts: south, west, and north. _No doubt, the garrison thinks that no volley, no matter how heavy, could breach their walls._

 

As Connington expected, the guards took cover, rather than try any launches of their own.

 

After he could no longer see any men-at-arms along the wall, Lord Connington signaled for his sellswords to change to the second phase of the bombardment. Though the guards must have expected the huge rocks when they first glimpsed the siege engines, they couldn’t have anticipated that the besiegers would secure hundreds of feet of chain to the ones they hurled in the second volley.

 

Once flung over the walls, the garrison had little hope of moving the boulders and, for a certainty, couldn’t throw them back. The Baratheon men realized the tactic and tried to rally every able body to hack at the chains. They managed to shatter the links of seven of them and the men scaling those chains fell to their deaths. But, two dozen more remained intact. Insistent, Aegon himself was among the men who climbed the castle wall.

 

Once they’d taken the ramparts, they were able to use the position to shoot arrows down at the men rushing to the chained stones that landed in the courtyard. With the guards of Storm’s End out in the open and vulnerable, they did not last long. The battle itself was so brief, watching his men climb the chains took more time than the rest of the siege altogether for Lord Jon.

 

* * *

 

Aegon paced the room, worried for his foster father, but also wroth at him.

 

“They let fly mayhaps a dozen arrows and you happen to catch one through the palm of your hand?! Were you trying to pluck it from the air? Then, you let it fester for the rest of the day and cleave off half your own hand? Griff, you can never again be so reckless! Do you hear me?”

 

“Yes, Your Grace. But as I was saying, be sure to post lookouts.”

 

“Just so,” said Aegon. “I’ve seen to it, Griff.”

 

_It was no arrow-wound, my prince. The grey-death I’ve been carrying since I saved the treacherous Imp from the rushing waters of the Sorrows is more perilous than any arrow. However, it would not do for you or anyone else to know of the affliction. By the Seven, may my hand be all I lose to this curse._

 

With his good hand, he rolled a wide strip of leather into a tight scroll and brought it to his mouth. Connington knew how much searing the wound would hurt. He nodded and Haldon Halfmaester pulled his dagger from the hearth. _Looks harmless enough_ , he thought. It did not glow and Lord Jon couldn’t see any steam rise from it in the shaded room. Aegon averted his eyes. When Haldon touched it to the bloody edge of his hand, Connington pounded on the table with his free fist, his screams muffled by his leather bit.

 

* * *

 

In the following days, the re-instated Lord of Griffin’s Roost and Hand of King Aegon drank as little milk of the poppy as he could manage. He wanted to be present for Aegon’s battle planning with the Golden Company’s Harry Strickland and his serjeants. _Homeless Harry’s reluctance to leave a safe position is, for once, wise rather than just cowardly._ Storm’s End was a mighty fortress and despite Aegon’s wishes to push forward, it was a secure place to gather their strength and await potential allies.

 

The hired swords took to calling Jon by the name one of the Golden Company’s captains, Ser Franklyn Flowers, gifted him, _Shieldhand;_ for his fixation with defending their position, his appointment in their young king’s court, as well as his obvious lack of a sword hand. Leaving his thumb and the heel of his palm intact proved as useful as he’d hoped. Jon could still dress himself, albeit clumsily. He didn’t know how he would’ve managed with only a stump. _Or what less-than-flattering nickname that might have earned me._

 

* * *

 

Aegon led sorties to capture small, nearby keeps. Connington sent twice the number of scouts ahead of him as was truly necessary and mayhaps ten times the soldiers required in the deserted Stormlands.

 

“Lord Hand,” a squire interrupted Connington’s thoughts. “A man is at the gates. He claims to be an important friend of yours, but refuses to give his name or lift his hood.”

 

 _I knew he’d come_.

 

“Admit him to the castle and bring him to me,” he said. Jon added, “As a _friend_ , not a prisoner.”

 

Storm’s End was built as an ancient fortress, not some lordling’s leisure tower. Stormlord Keep was shaped like a barrel, though more wide than tall. The keep’s walls were smooth and vertical; the stone was laid in such fashion so as to provide no handholds. Windows were sparse, so Connington led his guest from his dim chamber, out to the privacy of the roofwalk.

 

“My lord," greeted the hooded guest, "our young king has done well to prove himself. You must be very proud.”

 

“Yes, Lord Varys,” Connington answered. After all of the years of interaction and even with all he’d done for Prince Aegon, the Spider still did not seem trustworthy. Jon Connington was not fond of idle chatter and Varys knew to keep his pleasantries short. He asked the Spider for news of the realm.

 

“My lord, the hour is both dangerous and ripe with opportunity. Every step is precarious from this moment on.”

 

 _Every day of mine has been precarious since long before this morning dawned._ Connington told him, “The Imp you sent convinced Aegon to make for Westeros. His Grace now thinks the Dragon Princess will join him. I am pleased that _something_ is discouraging him from marching headlong into the walls of King’s Landing, no matter the reason. But is she stirring from that forsaken, desert land?”

 

“Meereen is more fertile than any simple desert,” Varys answered, “but I take your meaning, my lord. Daenerys, it seems, is quite poor at keeping her dragons. One flew off many months ago and has not returned. A second escaped recently, the largest of the three. I’ve heard it called, ‘Balerion the Black Dread reborn.’ It is loose, but remains nearby. My little birds tell me that the beast is hunting livestock and burning as it pleases. At present, our dear princess has only one left in her control. Though, news travels slowly when crossing Essos, so she very well may have lost the last of them by now.”

 

Connington could tell Varys meant to be droll with his words. He wasn’t amused. Especially not when King Aegon was depending on the girl’s dragons. “You mean to tell me that, at this moment, she might head nothing more than an army of slaves, sellswords, and the meagrest of Dothraki _khalasars_?!” To calm his frustration, Jon clenched his fist. When he looked down, he remembered, _This cursed eunuch’s schemes already cost you that fist._

 

He returned his focus to Varys. “Assuming we can expect no aid from that quarter, where stand the other allies you pledged?”

 

Varys tittered and interlaced his fingers. He answered, “Progress is underway with allies, from both expected and unexpected seats.”

 

“Have you made your overtures to Dorne at the least, eunuch?" The ache in his hand made him even less patient with Lord Varys than he’d been in the past. "From the rookery back in Griffin’s Roost, Haldon send a raven to Sunspear. We’ve not heard a murmur back.”

 

“Prince Doran will send an envoy. He would have, even if you hadn’t asked to converse. I expect he will send his daughter. Or mayhaps, one or more of his bastard nieces, the Sand Snakes. Even without any concessions from us, he will pledge his spears and supplies. But the latter will prove to be the more valuable of the two, as Dorne lacks the soldiers that the other kingdoms have. I am no battle commander, my lord of griffins, but I am loathe to rely on Dornishmen north of the Prince’s Pass with winter on its way.”

 

 _He’s right, of course._ Dorne in summer was as impossible to invade as the North in winter; the men of each better suited for their own lands than any outsiders would ever be. _But both might be especially ill-equipped to handle the conditions of the other’s domain: Northmen might fall prey to exhaustion and sickness when faced with a limited supply of water and under the sun during the height of summer. The Dornish are like to freeze in their tents or mid-step while marching in heavy snows._

 

Connington voiced his concern, “Would that it was the peak of summer or that we might trade Dornish spears for Northern axes, even at two to one.”

 

The eunuch loved that response. _Careful you don’t giggle yourself off the roofwalk._ “An unexpected turn may bring such forces without sacrificing Dorne,” the Spider told him. “But let us address our friends to the south first. Arianne Martell is as seductive a woman as Aegon is like to encounter, even the noble Ser Aerys Oakheart of the Kingsguard could not withstand her onslaught.”

 

Connington grumbled. _I’ll not let a second prince lose his way for a wanton woman_. _Even that Martell wife of his did Rhaegar no favors._ Connington redoubled his conviction that Aegon would never marry a Martell. “So he beds her and Martell demands a wedding, what of it?” he lied, trying to hide his displeasure. “He’ll need an heir.”

 

Fury lit Varys’s eyes for half a moment. He schooled his face, but the thoroughly uncharacteristic show of anger did not escape Connington’s notice. The Spider insisted, “As I have told you before, we cannot afford to gift Prince Doran coin we need elsewhere. For that reason more than any other, I am here before you. Pieces are in motion which cannot be withdrawn. Everything, _everything,_ is for naught if Aegon weds Arianne Martell, or anyone else before the proper time. Neither of us has gone to the lengths we have only to watch it crumble before our eyes.” Varys’s voice was tinged with unusual steel. “Swear to me Jon Connington, on Aegon’s life, that you will make certain our young king does not marry _anyone_ until the moment it right. Until I give the word. _Swear it._ ”

 

He had never seen Varys like this, and he was leery of the hidden plots beneath the Spider’s apparent ones. _Aegon would have died if not for this deceitful man._

 

“Lord Connington, for the boy’s sake, you owe me this much at the least. No beddings and, most importantly, no weddings.”

 

“I give you my word as to a marriage, Lord Varys. I’ll not permit him to wed the Martell girl, and Aegon will not take a bride until you give the word about the proper time.”

 

The Spider was satisfied.

 

_Aegon needs to make a match with the Dragon Princess, Daenerys Stormborn. I will see that he waits until that day, then no one in the Seven Kingdoms can dispute their combined claim and heritage. Might be, she is the bride you intend, Varys, but if she’s not. . . I’ll not lose a flicker of sleep over a broken promise to a spider. I’ve broken more sacred vows to aid you; this would only be a small repayment of what you owe me, eunuch._

 

Connington still hated the lies he allowed the eunuch to spread and his former comrades to believe. _I never stole from the coffers of the Golden Company. I never turned craven. I did not drink myself into a fatal stupor._

 

The uneasy pair proceeded along the wallway, high above the courtyard. Varys updated Jon on what he knew of Aegon’s enemies. “Mace Tyrell’s daughter is still awaiting her trial by the Faith, but after the abrogation of charges by her paramount accuser, proving her innocence will be only a formality, my lord. The High Septon has already turned her over to the care of Lord Mace’s bannerman, Lord Tarly.”

 

_So Tyrell abandoned his siege of Storm’s End for no purpose. He is like to try to salvage his reputation and march against Aegon as soon as his daughter is cleared._

 

He continued, “As for our golden queen, Cersei Lannister is guilty beyond any doubt. Stannis’s claims regarding her infidelity are considered fact by many among the smallfolk. My lord, every whisper about her champion, this Ser Robert Strong, is grave. The High Septon knows the importance of defeating the huge knight in order to squash the rumors of unholy powers. But, I know of no man His Holiness can name who would be favored against the mysterious giant.”

 

He told Connington that the Northern forces were severely weakened and the installed Warden of the North held the remnants of their army in check through intimidation alone. About the Riverlands, the Spider described them as spent and done. “The Lannisters took heavy losses at the hands of the brave Young Wolf. The Lannister host was stronger than the Riverlords still breathing, but bone weary itself. They relied on Highgarden's strength on the Blackwater and still do.”

 

 _Tyrell’s daughter is married to the Lannister’s child-king,_ he reflected. _The boy couldn’t possibly have bedded her yet. Might that be who the Spider intends Aegon to marry?_ Varys had made no mention of such a match, but he’d never told Connington whom he wished the king to wed.

 

Connington recalled that the Stormlords had risen first for Renly Baratheon, then split between Stannis and the Tyrells. “What news of Stannis Baratheon?” he asked.

 

“That he helped the Night’s Watch and lingers in the North are what I can be certain of, Lord Connington. He may still be at the Wall or he may be on the march, I know not. We can make no peace with such a man.”

 

“I have heard as much. He will never relent.”

 

The Spider mentioned vague descriptions of Stannis’s battle beyond the Wall and the red witch, upon whom Baratheon relied. Varys told Jon to have Haldon Halfmaester read all he could about the Night’s Watch and tales from beyond the Wall. “Some force is being roused. Cersei Lannister dismissed reports of dragons in the East, leaving herself vulnerable, should Princess Daenerys ever find a way to bridle them and attack. Do not open Aegon to a similar threat in the North, my lord.”

 

Jon Connington mulled all he had heard in his head. _Weak Lannisters, defeated Riverlands, barely standing Northmen. . . The Reach seems to be the last remaining threat to Aegon_. “What else, Varys? The Iron Islands attacked the vacated North. What is Balon Greyjoy doing?”

 

“Feeding crabs, I should think,” Varys replied, giggling. “He is dead. Conveniently fell from a bridge and the Ironborn crowned his brother, Euron Crow’s Eye. He brought his own fleet to Old Wyk, from whatever hell the ships of _King Crow’s Eye_ make birth. To that fleet, he added the strength of most every lord in the Iron Islands. My little birds say he might have as many as a thousand ships: comprised of war galleys, longships, and every floating bundle of wood he’s stolen since taking the Driftwood Throne.”

 

 _One thousand ships. . ._ Connington dreaded what that might mean, should the Golden Company need to take to the sea. He asked, “What is this new king doing with his thousands of oars?”

 

“Reaving, and worse. All along the coastline of the Reach. The Shield Islands fell to him more than two moon turns ago. Now, every castle up the Mander might be a target. Euron’s brother, Victarion Greyjoy, leads the remnants of his Iron Fleet, some one hundred ships or near enough to make no matter, in the Summer Sea. Presumably, he endeavors to make overtures to Daenerys Targaryen or the rulers of other cities in Essos. To what end. . .”

 

“Aegon the Conqueror should’ve never stopped at Harrenhal,” Connington insisted. “How every king for three hundred years endured a populace of pirates, thieves, and rapers, I will never understand. Once _our_ Aegon comes into his crown, he can remedy that.”

 

Varys suggested they return inside the keep and mentioned that he couldn’t stay in Storm’s End even long enough to see Aegon return from his forays to the nearby holdfasts.

 

_Where will you go? What task could be more important than using your spies to inform our strategy?_

 

The eunuch arched his brow, but kept the rest of his face still. He mused, “You are speculating on some matter, my lord. Mayhaps upon the question: to where I shall depart?” The Spider had a way of puzzling out Jon’s thoughts that irritated him to no end. “Some enemies one must confront with steel, Lord Connington. Others with a smile. Still other enemies exist for whom one need only clear a path and watch trip and fall on the very swords they mean to utilize in their attack.

 

“Lord Jon,” he continued. “One such enemy has its path impeded by a squirrel-”

 

 _“Squirrel?”_ questioned Connington.

 

Varys tittered. “A figurative one, my lord. With golden-yellow fur, it is deft and prudent, despite its lack of boldness. This creature means to gather what it needs, building a cache of support for the coming winter. Without this squirrel, our remaining enemies will be unbridled in their heedless charge down a disastrous path, my lord.”

 

_As secretive as ever, Spider._

 

“So you’ve said all you mean to, Lord Varys?” questioned Jon.

 

The Spider smiled and agreed.

 

“Wait. . .” Connington implored. He asked himself, _What am I forgetting? There was something else I meant to ask before the Spider distracted me with tales of forest critters._ . . Jon remembered, “There remains one kingdom you have failed to make mention of. What of the Vale? Who did they declare for?”

 

Varys indulged in a self-satisfied grin. He said, “Lady Lysa Arryn kept them out of the War of the Five Kings. She married a devious man after Lord Jon Arryn’s _timely_ death and soon endured a most unfortunate end of her own.”

 

“Did you have a hand in that?”

 

“Me?” he asked in a shrill voice. “My lord, of course not. But, I think it obvious that her new husband did; the _Lord Protector_ now rules in her stead and in her son’s name. My little birds bring me news of Gulltown and the seaward side of the Vale, but I hear nothing from the Eyrie.”

 

Connington studied the eunuch’s plump face before he said, “And where are your secret allies to come from? There is nowhere left in Westeros.”

 

“If you were anyone else, Lord Jon. . .” Varys reflected in a near whimsical tone. “The Vale _is_ where our king may find allies. I failed to deliver one man to you. But in that failure, that very man may help deliver to us the full strength of the Vale. . . if certain suspicions prove true.”

 

Lord Varys took his leave. As much as Jon Connington loathed the man, he knew Aegon was depending on him. _I failed the father, I’ll not fall short in my service to the son. . . Even if that forces me to put my faith in a creature such as Varys the Eunuch._


	35. Jon - A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excited to post this one. I hope you like it and where it might lead the characters in chapters to come.

He felt the bracing wind lift him higher with each gust. The valley floor was well below him now. He pushed himself further into the face of the wind.

 

The trees lagged behind. He flew over slopes of snow. Finally, only sheer rock-face was ahead of him. With one last thrust, he was over the peak. In the distance, a second summit awaited, deceptively far away. The mountain drew him; for how long, he could not remember. A waterfall of ice covered the backside of his new mountain. Spires of white stone sat near its top. He watched them as he flew through the void between the peaks. As he got closer, he saw that each column of the spires resembled a dead, branchless tree.

 

 _Towers,_ a voice reminded him.

 

Before he was across the expanse between the cliffs, he caught a glimpse of movement below. Pulling his limbs in, forward and tight, he dove.

 

A herd of furry, brown goats gnawed on the coarse shrubs that clung to the stone cliff. He angled his body, gliding and banking along the mountainside. His prey saw him and leapt from boulder to boulder with exceptional balance. They were not fast enough. His teeth caught the largest among them on his first pass.

 

He flew his kill to the summit and landed in the snow covered middle, sheltered from the wind by _towers_.

 

Steam rose from his scales, as it always did in snow. He hissed his bright-gold flame, scorching his goat and turning the piled snow into water.

 

He had been in hiding. He’d been so quiet for so long. He wanted to be finished with hiding. For any who might hear, he shrieked his claim to the mountain.

 

* * *

 

An imagined cry rattled him from his sleep.

 

 _Was that only a dream?_ Jon asked himself, worried that he might already know the answer.

 

Seconds later, the echo down the Giant’s Lance told him all he needed to know.

 

* * *

 

“You mean to go where?!” asked Ser Brynden, incredulous.

 

“The top of the mountain. To the Eyrie and its seven towers,” Jon confirmed.

 

Sansa pleaded, “Jon, it’s too dangerous.”

 

“I have to,” he stated and left the room, brokering no further discussion.

 

* * *

 

That night, Jon laid in bed unable to sleep. He had packed as much as he dared carry into a satchel and laid out the warmest woolens and furs he could find, for the morning.

 

In the dark of his room, he heard the door creak open. At first, he thought Ghost might have pushed it open, but one flickering candle glided through the threshold.

 

Light and tentative steps shuffled through the darkness. Trying to see the figure, Jon couldn’t even trace an outline. He heard cloth flutter to the ground. The shadow placed the candle beside the bed and slithered under his furs.

 

A hand touched his face.

 

“Who’s there?” he whispered.

 

“Jeyne.”

 

Jon pushed himself back, to the far edge of the featherbed.

 

“Oh, Jon. . . forget your climb tomorrow. It is a fool’s errand.”

 

He could hear her breathing, heavy and erratic.

 

“You might. . . stay. . . with me. Would that be so terrible?”

 

_No, it would not._

 

Jon hated her then. For everything she caused. For how welcome her warmth was.

 

“You are Robb’s wife,” he told her.

 

“No, Jon. His widow.”

 

“Even if. . .” His voice died as he felt her hand against his bare chest.

 

“I have seen the loneliness in your eyes, Jon.”

 

She slid closer and kissed his cheek. Then again. And once more, catching the corner of his lips.

 

“We need not feel so alone, you and I. . .”

 

Jon felt his body respond to the softness of her lips and the sweetness of her words. She reached an arm around him and pulled her body closer. Jon could feel himself pressed against her stomach. He stirred at the soft friction.

 

Jeyne edged her lips past his face and whispered into his ear, “Neither of us are wed, we would not be breaking any vows or dishonoring any spouses. . .”

 

She brought her lips back to press against his and slowly parted them.

 

“No.” Jon pushed her away. “I will not dishonor Robb’s memory. _Your husband’s memory_. Or my wife’s.”

 

“Your wife’s?” Jeyne asked abruptly. “You never mentioned a wife to me, or told me about her-”

 

“Nor will I.” His words cut off her whispers and his tone conveyed the finality of his decision.

 

“But, Jon. . . did you mean that it was _her memory_ that you didn’t wish to dishonor? If she’s. . .”

 

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from his chest. “Now you have wormed your way into the beds of two sons too many of Eddard Stark. Put your clothes on and do your best to keep them on.”

 

Jon seethed with anger. _This blind, selfish girl._ She’d cost Jon his brother and cost Robb his life and his kingdom. He forced himself to smile as he heard her whimper on her way out. Jon tried to harden his heart. Tried to freeze it solid.

 

 _Was that too cruel?_ He didn’t want to feel sorry about his words. The harshness of how he sent her away felt unnatural to Jon. _Better too cruel, than too kind._

 

_Nothing good will come of any kindness I show her._

 

* * *

 

Jon hoped to be underway that morning before anyone could try to stop him. At first light, he bundled against the cold and gathered up his pack. As he hoisted it, he heard the clang of the steel bear claws he’d pilfered: two, spiked soles to strap to his boots and two hooks for his hands. Jon didn’t know what to expect on his way up the mountain.

 

“You won’t be needing those.”

 

In the snowy courtyard, Jon turned around to see a tall, blue-eyed woman standing behind him with four mules.

 

“The only idea dumber than trying to climb through this snow with mules, is trying it without them.”

 

Jon walked over to her and took the lead of the one of the animals. “Thank you, Mya,” he said.

 

She laughed through her scarf. “You won’t be making the assent yourself. Besides, how else can I be sure my mules will survive the climb?”

 

Thus, Jon followed Mya Stone up the Giant’s Lance.

 

* * *

 

She didn’t tie the mules together, lest one should fall and drag the others down as well. The two spare mules followed behind them obediently.

 

Where they were exposed, the wind tore through them and straight to their bones. But at least in those sections, the gusts had cleared the snow. In the sheltered nooks, the snow was three feet deep, and the mules couldn’t see the stairs carved into the stone. When they reached each of those sections, Mya ran one hand along the cliff wall. She insisted that her mules had made the same climb in the dark hundreds of times and knew every step.

 

They spent their first night in the waycastle called _Stone_. It was abandoned for the winter, but kept out the cold. For warmth, Jon, Mya, and all four mules slept close together.

 

When Mya shook him the following morning, Jon thought he remembered going to sleep against cold, white stone beneath the stars and took a moment to recall where he was and Mya’s name.

 

She told Jon that they would ride the mules that hadn’t been encumbered by their weight the day before. Jon couldn’t tell one from another and followed her instructions without complaint.

 

The second day was filled with harsher winds, but smaller snow embankments. Jon spent the daylight hours bent over his mule. He urged it on. His cloak helped to cover the animal from the biting winds and they shared their warmth. They reached _Snow_ , the second waycastle, well before nightfall, but did not attempt to press on. They remained there for the night.

 

Jon slung an arm over Mya’s shoulder as they shared his cloak. They huddled close to the drafty hearth and the welcome fire. The only sounds inside the small keep were from the mules braying nearby and from Mya rubbing her hands together.

 

She broke their silence, “So you’re Sansa’s brother?”

 

The mountain left no room for conversation on the climb and neither of them had fostered any the previous night.

 

“Aye.”

 

“And you mentioned that you were bastard-born?”

 

Jon tensed at the question. She shifted against his change in posture.

 

“No insult intended, Ser Jon. As you well know, my name happens to be _Stone_. ‘Each of us bastards, you and I,’ you said to me, or something of the like. I was just wondering what it was like to be a bastard and surrounded by trueborn siblings. I never had a brother or sister, bastard or otherwise.”

 

Jon took a breath and relaxed, feeling his ribs bump her elbow. “After everything that war and treachery has stolen, if I didn’t find one of my siblings. . . I have not the first idea how I would manage.”

 

“But, would you trade places with me?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“The Vale’s been untouched by war,” she told him. “I’m not saying that you’d trade your knight’s horse and sword for my mules and my mountain. If you were still to be you, but you didn’t have any brothers or any sisters in the first place. Instead of losing them.”

 

_Would I trade their deaths for them never having existed?_

 

Slowly, he replied, “Knowing they are dead. . . the loss. . . it’s my burden to carry for them. If the cost of the years they had is that I have to bear that burden. . . I suppose I’d take on even more grief, if it would give any of them a little while longer of life. . . I only wish I could do more than mourn them.”

 

Jon flexed his icy fingers and pulled his cloak more fully around them.

 

Thinking aloud, he added, “But there were days - are days - when might be, you could convince me to make that trade. . . for a respite if nothing else.”

 

“But now you have your sister.”

 

“Aye, and that makes more difference than I have words for.”

 

That night, the pair slept with her curled around his back. To Jon, it felt more proper than to sleep with the positions reversed. Feeling her soft breath against the nape of his neck, Jon couldn’t help drifting off with thoughts of this solitary, mountain-woman in his mind’s eye.

 

* * *

 

After a morning’s climb, they reached a perilous pass that looked like a natural bridge. Recent winds had swept all snow from the stone and centuries of wind had rubbed it smooth.

 

Mya dismounted and said she’d walk across first.

 

“Not fucking likely!” Jon shouted over the drone of the wind. “Cross on your hands and knees!”

 

She rolled her eyes at him, which was all he could see of her face. Mya was supremely confident in her abilities on the mountain and in her mules. Jon grabbed her cloak and refused to let go until she consented to crawling across.

 

Mya crossed first and two mules followed patiently behind her. She stood up on the other side and yelled something to Jon, but the wind carried off her words.

 

Jon did just as she had. The animals looked terrified, but followed nonetheless.

 

At halfway, he felt a gust and stopped in place. The wind refused to settle and only picked up force. Jon sprawled on the smooth rock and clutched the windward edge. He tucked his chin and shielded his face as best he could. The gust howled in his ears.

 

When finally it let up, Jon looked behind only to find his mules gone.

 

At the other side, Mya hauled him to his feet.

 

“Seven hells!” she exclaimed, shaking him by his shoulders.

 

Jon smiled back at her. “Any more of those passes ahead? I cannot hardly wait.”

 

“None like that. But passed Sky, it is no easier.”

 

Jon arched his neck and looked up to where the cliffs met the clouds.

 

_You’d better still be up there._

 

Jon could sense that it still was.

 

Mya spared a brief prayer for her lost mules and they continued on the two she’d led over.

 

* * *

 

The outside of the final waycastle, _Sky_ , was little more than a curved hut of unmortared stone. Inside, it was a cavern chiseled into the mountain, making for a narrow, natural hall in the stone. The rock chamber kept out the wind, but not the cold. From its store-bins, they took fire logs and placed them in an iron brazier. Once they stoked the kindling into catching, Jon and Mya huddled close to watch the flames lick at, and slowly ignite, the sturdier timber.

 

They sat hip to hip, sharing their cloaks and warmth. Still, it felt as if the cold air found its way between them. Mya threw a leg over one of Jon’s and shifted closer.

 

“Mya,” he asked, “what of your family? Last night, you said you grew up without brothers or sisters, but what of other kin?”

 

“My mother works in Lord Nestor’s household. Well, she did, before he. . .”She let out a sigh. “Randa is my closest friend and as near a sister as I know. My father. . .”

 

“You don’t have to, if you’d rather not say.”

 

“No,” she said stubbornly. “I recall a man who used to visit me when I was very young. Might be, he was my father. For many years, the mountain has been my home and like a member of my family.”

 

 _Would she have someone else in her life?_ Jon wondered. He found himself curious not about her kin, but if she had someone whom she _cared for_.

 

“And no one else? Not someone else you’re close to? Not. . . some stableboy or knight who’s caught your eye?”

 

She groaned and Jon regretted the question.

 

“A bastard girl might be enough for a squire, but once he’s been _ser’ed_ , she’s forgotten soon enough.” Mya looked at him. “A thing I’ll bet you understand some.”

 

Jon didn’t know if she was implying that as a knight he must be familiar with bedding, then forgetting women. Or, if as a bastard, he knew how others looked down at children born on the wrong side of the sheet.

 

Instead, Jon answered, “I was married once.”

 

He took a breath. “I was four-and-ten, as was she. The niece of one of my lord father’s bannermen. I fought to earn a knighthood and status enough to ask for her hand. I’d never been so proud as when Ser Brynden tapped my shoulders, nor as happy as when I married. . . as when I wed my Lydrea.”

 

“I’m sorry, Jon. Is she. . .? I wouldn’t have mentioned it, if I’d. . . you know.”

 

“No, you’ve naught to apologize for, Mya. I’ve barely spoken a dozen words on her since I heard that she died, riding somewhere. I have no answers as to how, not that it’d change anything that mattered.”

 

They sat in silence, watching the wood gradually turn to ash. Jon thought on his grief and Mya on her own, unspoken regrets.

 

“That was not all,” Jon finally whispered. “There was a babe as well. A baby girl born to her. . . and to me, though I never set eyes on her.”

 

“Oh, Mother’s mercy, Jon.”

 

_Brigands and Ironborn have no mercy, Mya. If only they, or whatever clansmen my wife came across, showed Lydrea and our girl the kindness they deserved._

 

“I haven’t spoken much of her, but I’ve not said even a word on the babe. Not to the Blackfish, not to Sansa. Cannot say why I speak of this now. Just. . .well. . . thank you for helping me up your mountain, Mya. This was, and is, something I needed to do.”

 

“You don’t mean to. . .” she said, suddenly hesitant. “To throw yourself off, do you?”

 

Jon’s lips made a weak smile. “No. But I fear you’d think me just as mad if I told what I do mean to do.”

 

Leaving that topic alone, Mya asked, “What is it you mean to do once the war is over?”

 

He hadn’t thought much on that and told her so, “I have so far to travel and so many impossible tasks left to do. . . I don’t think I’ll ever see that day.”

 

“But, if you did. . . Might be you could return,” Mya Stone said. “The Gates of the Moon are not so bad and, in spring, the Vale of Arryn comes alive. I think you’d like it. And that wolf of yours too.”

 

Jon felt her lean closer.

 

“When spring comes, perhaps I _would_ enjoy being here.”

 

_Perhaps I’d enjoy being here on this night, too. Might be, I’d enjoy it very much._

 

One part of him wished to return Mya’s gesture and press nearer. Another piece couldn’t bear it. Not after talking about his wife, not after saying her name aloud. Though she was gone, killed by men or wolves or bears, Jon couldn’t yet accept the touch of another woman.

 

_She was mine to protect. An honorable lord has thousands to protect, I had just the two. And, I made a pitiful botch of that._

 

Mya Stone was quite different from how Lydrea had been. She was sinewy and tall, where his wife was once shorter and more curvy. Mya had blue eyes and a mess of black hair chopped short, whereas Jon’s love had hazel eyes and long, braided, shining, brown hair.

 

If ever he did see the end to winter, Jon told himself that he’d consider returning to this mountain and the tough woman who knew it best.

 

On that night, though, she merely curled around him and they slept next to the dwindling fire.

 

* * *

 

“Hand-holds are all that’s left, Jon. I will wait down here, but I want no more deflections from you. What _are_ you after? Why risk your life? You’d never have made it up without my help. You owe me this much.”

 

Jon pulled down his scarf so she could see his grin. “Better yet, wait here and I’ll _show_ you.”

 

He ignored her further protests and climbed.

 

 _This can’t be as dangerous as it looks,_ he told himself. Frosty holds on a sheer face were no less dangerous than the stoneway had been the day before. But, even when he looked below, he was confident that he would reach the Eyrie. _Confident and eager,_ he thought.

 

The door was boarded up and its hinges frozen solid. Jon had to pull himself up through the basket hole to access the crescent entryroom. A winding stair beneath two murder-holes led him into the castle proper. He ignored the pair of heavy, locked doors he passed by, and he continued around the circular hallway. The frosted-over windows admitted just enough light for Jon to find his way to an exit into the snowy garden.

 

“Dragon!” he called.

 

Jon heard a screeching roar before snow and ice blew in his face. It tucked the edges of its wings as a man might close his fingers into a loose fist, and it landed on all fours: its two, clawed back legs and two, winged forelimbs.

 

The beast knew him, just as he knew it.

 

He approached it and the dragon stood up on its hind limbs, spread its wings, and snapped at him. Jon didn’t break stride. When last he’d seen this dragon, it was roughly of size with Ghost. Meeting it again, its leathery, white wings stretched some sixty feet, tip to tip. Its body outweighed Ghost many times over.

 

_Left to its own, wild devices, this beast has been growing faster than even Ghost did as a pup._

 

The dragon dropped back down to stand on all four of its limbs and slinked its neck to look at Jon, eye to eye. He raised his hand to the white scales on its lowered snout. Instantly, he felt the dragon’s presence.

 

Its mind seemed to make room for Jon, though it did not fully recede into the background. Seemingly in return, Jon felt as if it demanded a corner of his mind for itself.

 

Jon opened his eyes and could see the face of the dragon as well as his own. Two overlapping, but distinct images filled Jon’s view. _Like focusing my eyes to see something close at hand, then something else far away. Looking in the same direction for both, but seeing one then the other._

 

_Neither of us was ready when first you found me. Now we are, both you and I._

 

Ser Jon Whitewolf studied the dragon. Its scales were paler that they had been, now more the color of milk than cream. In the waning sunlight, they glimmered with a hint of gold. _Not ‘its’ scales,_ Jon realized. _Hers._

 

_Viserion. The white she-dragon._

 

Jon climbed up on her back, wrapped his legs around the base of her neck, and held tight to the golden hackles running down the ridge of her neck.

 

Viserion pounced, first springing off her back legs, then her powerful forelimbs. She snapped them forward again to flap her wings into the air. The force lifted them off the ground, then higher with each thrust.

 

_This feels akin to swimming._

 

They swooped away from the towers, then circled to the upper most ridge, just above the castle. On the return pass, they descended in a glide.

 

Jon shouted his excitement with both his voices. While sitting atop her back, Viserion’s wings were Jon’s, as much as his own arms were.

 

The warmth emanating from her scales kept back the cold. _And with a coloring close to snow, you are, for a certainty, a dragon made for winter._

 

Jon saw the mules at the base of the final climb to the Eyrie and his second mouth steamed.

 

 _Mya,_ he reminded himself.

 

They fluttered down. She and her mules backed away from Viserion. The dragon crouched and Jon leapt off. Scared as she must have been, Mya still couldn’t help but return Jon’s smile.

 

“Jon. . .”

 

“Yes, Mya. This would be a dragon,” he said grinning. “Come here.”

 

Startled yet determined, she forced herself closer. After a moment of hesitation, Mya Stone reached up and gripped a horn. The four horns bracketing the crest of the dragon’s head were undeniably golden. They looked as if one could shave flakes of gold off with a knife. Mya traced one of the two upper horns down to the ridges, then laid her hand on the scales.

 

“He’s warm, hot even.”

 

“ _She_ is. It’s as if she was born for winter,” Jon said, voicing his thoughts. “Do you think the mules will follow the steps down to the Gates on their own?”

 

She looked back at her well-cared for mounts.

 

“You don’t mean to. . .?”

 

Jon nodded.

 

“They know every inch of the way. They’ve been begging for me to let them walk down since we stopped. Without our weight upon their backs, they’d make the descent in a fraction of the time. But. . .”

 

Mya backed away from the dragon, looking it in the eye. “Are you sure about this?”

 

Jon posed the question, “If I said I wasn’t, would you turn around and ride the mules?”

 

“Not on your life.”

 

Mya Stone fed the mules as much of the remaining oats as they could eat, and Jon silently urged Viserion not to eat them. She led the mules past the dragon and once they were on their way, she turned back to Jon. “Are you still Ser White _wolf_ , Jon?”

 

He laughed, still more excited than he could fully contain. “Always,” he said. “I just suppose Ghost now has a new companion.”

 

Jon climbed on first, and then helped Mya up.

 

“You’ll need a new saddle, ser,” she teased. Viserion readied herself, and Mya wrapped Jon in both her arms. The dragon bounded to the ledge of the mountain, a bit clumsy from the added weight. With naught but thousands of feet of open air below them, they jumped off of solid ground.

 

Viserion waited several seconds before opening her wings. Jon’s insides were aflutter. He and Mya both screamed before wind and wings caught them. Viserion let out an amused shriek.

 

She carried them higher only to glide back down. They cut through the clouds, blinding Jon in a thick mist, and then below them. Snow covered pines and the iced-over branches of bare trees glowed yellow in the day’s dying light. For leagues upon leagues, the sun looked to have covered the Vale in drifts of frozen light.

 

Keeping close to the mountainside, Jon guided her down to the Gates of the Moon.

 

The castle must have seen, _or heard_ , Viserion from afar, because when they landed, the entire household and all its guests looked on. Some stared down at the yard from behind windows. Others stood in doorways clutching swords or whatever they’d found nearby to defend themselves.

 

Mya slid off and declared, “Come forward and meet my dragon!”

 

Jon and Viserion laughed. Though the dragon’s laugh sounded cheerful in his ears, Jon saw others frightened by the cry.

 

He hopped down and stood at her side. Ghost and Sansa were the first to approach. The direwolf lopped toward the dragon, acting curious and familiar. Sansa treaded through the snow carefully.

 

“But, Jon. . .” she muttered.

 

“Yes, Sansa. It is a dragon. You may come closer,” he offered.

 

Mya snorted at that. “My toes are freezing. We’ve been on the mountain for two and a half days. Everyone, let the boy inside!”

 

 _Boy?_ Jon flashed Mya a look.

 

“Apologies, good knight. Ser Dragonwolf, would you join me for some mulled wine?”

 

He shot her a sterner glare. _Don’t you dare encourage that stupid title._

 

* * *

 

No one but Jon was keen to allow a dragon into the castle’s grand hall. Knowing the combined dangers of a dragon, agitated horses, and dry straw, the stables were just as poor an option.

 

Four pages corralled milk-cows out of a barn and into the stalls vacated by Drifts and Stranger. Jon put his three mounts together in the cracked-stone barn. Drifts reacted as if standing next to a dragon was no different than sharing a barn with a pig. Stranger looked eager to charge Viserion to assert his dominance. The dragon gave Jon a look that he knew was tantamount to a shrug. She spread her wings as wide as she could in the confined space and gave the stallion a throaty hiss. Stranger thought better of pursuing the confrontation.

 

“Jon. . .” Sansa whispered, alarm stealing the wind from her lungs. She crept up behind him and clutched his arm. “Jon, that horse. . . the destrier, why do you have it?”

 

He recalled the out of place familiarity which accompanied Clegane’s mention of Sansa.

 

“I think, perhaps. . . you know, Sansa.”

 

She dug her fingernails into his sleeve. Sansa raised her chin and straightened her back. “We never finished talking about him, did we? Is he. . ? Is the Hound dead, Jon?”

 

“According to him and the monk who saved him on the Quiet Isle, the man they called, ‘the Hound,’ was dead before I met him. He was a changed man, he didn’t seem at all like Ser Brynden described.”

 

Sansa said, “He was always different from how he was described. He was a fearsome killer, but not _only_ that. The Hound protected me, was the only Kingsguard who never struck me, and the night of the battle. . .”

 

“Sansa, what happened?”

 

She stepped back and flattened out the skirts of her dress. Her face impassive, Sansa divulged, “He came to my room and offered to take me away from King’s Landing. I should’ve gone with him, I _wish_ I had, but I was scared and I thought someone else would help me. He put his knife to my throat, but I knew he wouldn’t harm me. I gave him a song. . . and a kiss.”

 

_A song and a kiss? Is that some courtly term for something else?_

 

“Just a kiss?”

 

“Yes.” She looked at his face until his meaning dawned on her. “He didn’t do anything more. At first, I was scared he might, but no. He was afraid that night, and. . . gentle. You haven’t told me how he died.”

 

Jon frowned. He didn’t wish to cause her any undo harm, but if she needed an answer he wouldn’t deny her. _I know the ache of needing answers that I’ll never learn._

 

He offered her his arm and they walked into the castle. Jon was hoping to find some privacy and everyone he passed gave them a wide birth. Striding to the solar near her chambers, Sansa shut the door behind them, and Jon added kindling and a strip of bark to the dying embers of the hearth-fire. After coaxing a flame from the coals, he remained on the floor next to it. Sansa handed him a flagon and a cup. Jon shook the near-empty flagon, before pouring its contents. She stayed on her feet and looked down to meet his eyes.

 

Jon began the tale by telling her about the Quiet Isle and Rosby Road.

 

“And then, we found the Great Sept of Baelor. We were led to its dungeons. They had Cersei Lannister and Margaery Tyrell as captives. They looked more like criminals than queens. Lannister was a bitter, hateful woman. Tyrell acted as if nothing could harm her, even locked in a cell with Sandor Clegane.

 

“In the city, trouble found him and we had to flee. Bowmen shot him twice. Perhaps he could have fled, but he stood his ground. He was like something out of Old Nan’s stories. With a thundering yell, he seemed ten feet tall. An axe in each hand, he cut through them, the City Watch. There was something brave and tragic about him in the end. Afterwards, no one chased me. I don’t know if they were terrified after seeing Clegane or if they were tending to their wounded. If they had come after me, I would most like have been ridden down. He probably saved my life.”

 

Sansa’s eyes welled up, but she did not cry. “That’s how he would have wanted to fall.” She showed Jon a sad smile. “I imagine him calling them ‘whoresons’ or the like and refusing to run from the fight. . . Thank you for telling me, Jon. I needed to hear it.”

 

Jon felt his heart twist in his chest. He had to ask her, but a was afraid she might know. _Would I want the answer knowing that she’ll still be dead? That they’ll both still be dead?_

 

He cleared his throat and said, “I know that you, father, and Arya traveled to King’s Landing after I left for Braavos. Uncle Benjen didn’t know much more of what happened after that.”

 

Jon saw worry in her eyes. “I’m not asking about that, Sansa. You can tell me what you wish to, _when_ you wish to. But in all that time. . .”

 

He turned his eyes to the fire before he asked, “Did you hear any word about Lydrea and. . .” _I never asked Gariss if our girl had a name yet, when they were killed._ Ashamed, Jon couldn’t find the words to mention his lost daughter, “. . . and how she died?”

 

“You don’t mean. . . Oh, Jon. I’m so sorry for you, for her. And no one knows what happened?”

 

Jon shook his head. _She’s gone. My grief is all I have left from her. Grief and a horse are my only proof she was ever real._

 

With the back of his glove, Jon wiped the melted snowflakes that had dripped from his hair, only to realize that the droplets were not from snow.

 

Sansa put her hand on his. Jon heard Viserion’s mournful howl echo through the valley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder: This story is for fun, not profit. GRRM owns everything that he owns. 
> 
> Thanks to all the continued readers and commenters. Here's a quick nod to _the very first reader to get behind this story_ , who I haven't heard from in a while. If you're still reading, I'd love to hear what you think! Same goes for everyone else!


	36. Brynden - Planning

* * *

 

In the dark solar, Ser Brynden attended Lord Yohn. The man’s cousin, Nestor Royce, had held his claim to the Gates of the Moon for so short a time that Bronze Yohn did not argue for it to remain a seat for the cadet branch of his House. Brynden and Yohn reached an agreement to return the Gates to House Arryn. Lord Nestor’s son, Ser Albar, would be named to his father’s post as High Steward of the Vale and castellan of the Gates of the Moon.

 

As the Blackfish was Robert Arryn’s most direct kin in the Vale, he took the regency and guardianship of Lord Robert. To bind Houses Tully and Royce, Lord Yohn pushed for Myranda Royce and Brynden to agree to marry, on some future day.

 

 _She’s a good lass,_ he thought. _Would that I had a son she could wed in my place._

 

Brynden caught a drop of melted wax before it could fall from the edge of the candle onto one of their maps. He scraped it from his palm and moved the candleholder to a windowsill.

 

The Blackfish glanced at the three tables he’d spread across the solar and the maps on each, and then the weathered knight sat back down to resume his discussions with Yohn Royce. The two men got along well; they always had. But, they had very different agendas for the coming months.

 

He heard a knock on the door. Jon entered and Sansa followed.

 

“My lords,” the lad greeted them. “Are you, perhaps, discussing the future of the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North?”

 

_Most like, he assumes that already. What is Jon getting on about?_

 

Brynden nodded.

 

“In that case, I wish Lady Sansa to be a party to the discussion.”

 

“Ser, my lady,” answered Bronze Yohn. “You need not worry, we both have your interests in mind.”

 

Jon wasn’t satisfied. “You might have forgotten, Lord Royce, though I doubt her uncle has, that the Starks never bent the knee to the Lannisters and the Kingdom of the North passes to Robb’s heir.”

 

The Blackfish understood immediately and a smirk crept up his face; Yohn took only a few moments more.

 

Smiling at her, Brynden said, “Please be seated, _my queen_.”

 

The Blackfish knew that the North would never rally around Jeyne. He had spent enough time around her and in the company of Northmen to know that. _She’ll be cared for as the Young Wolf’s widow and as queen dowager, but she is not of the North and cannot lead them. Sansa, on the other hand. . ._ He wondered about his grand-niece’s capability to lead.

 

The Blackfish told them, “I have every reason to believe that King Robb named an heir just before his murder.” He waited for Ser Jon and _Queen_ Sansa to sit down before continuing. She entered tentatively, but Jon brought two chairs around to the opposite side of the table and the two of them sat facing the corner Brynden and Yohn shared.

 

“Jon,” said Brynden. “He thought you lost to him, along with your younger brothers.”

 

“Sansa, my dear,” he addressed her specifically, “Robb, your mother, and I all feared for you. But, we could not allow Winterfell to fall into Lannister hands. Not many knew about your brother’s intentions, but I was one of few. I don’t know if he ever put ink to parchment, though.”

 

”Who did he want as the next in line?” asked Jon.

 

“Robb meant for Benjen Stark to be the heir to Winterfell and the North and to be released from his vows to the Night’s Watch, should Robb die without issue.”

 

“ _Uncle Benjen?_ ” The words seemed to escape from Sansa’s mouth, rather than being deliberately uttered by her.

 

Ser Jon said, “He’d never abandon his post.” The lad’s tone rang with uncertainty.

 

“Do not dismay, Jon. We can discuss other means of succession, if this troubles you.”

 

The young knight shook his head. “No, not. . . Uncle Benjen would make for a fine lord, he just wouldn’t. . .”

 

“Do you intend Lady Sansa, then?” Bronze Yohn asked.

 

“Aye,” Jon replied. “She is the next in line.”

 

“But, Jon,” she started. Sansa stopped herself and looked at Jon, then Lord Yohn.

 

“Go ahead, my girl,” assured Brynden. “Speak your mind.”

 

“What about, well, you know. . .”

 

 _Your marriage to the Imp,_ Brynden thought, but was delicate enough with his grand-niece not to mention it outright.

 

“About your Lannister husband, you mean, my lady?”

 

_Yohn Royce, ham-fisted and as subtle as a poleaxe._

 

“That sham?!” Jon bristled with anger. “Who of her House sanctioned it? And, she was forced to say their words, yes, but not before a weirwood. It holds no weight by rule of the North.”

 

Jon sounded urgent.

 

 _Surely you cannot mean to set aside a valid marriage compact simply because they did not follow some long dead tradition?_ Brynden thought. He recalled, _Your own father, Ned Stark, wed in a sept._

 

“As said at the trial,” the Blackfish interjected. “Lady Sansa’s virtue remains, and thus, her marriage can be set aside easily enough. It would not due for anyone in King’s Landing to know of her presence in the Vale, yet. Thus, we must needs wait to send a raven.”

 

Jon relaxed from the edge of his chair. Brynden filled his cup with wine and offered it to his one-time squire and his niece. Sansa shook her head, but Jon gladly accepted the drink.

 

Getting back to their discussion, Jon asked to be informed of their progress thus far. They told him and Sansa about their talk of the Blackfish’s betrothal and the likelihood of Brynden taking the regency for Lord Robert Arryn.

 

 _Littlefinger’s bastard son,_ a voice in his mind whispered. He told himself, _but Lysa’s son as well. Blood is blood, family is family._ He continued to withhold his suspicions on the boy’s heritage.

 

“Lord Yohn wishes to redeem the honor of the lords of the Vale,” stated Brynden. “He thinks that with the Lannisters and Lord Stannis Baratheon weakened, the armies sworn to House Arryn would have little trouble with the remnants of the opposing hosts.”

 

“Only the Tyrell men would put up much of a fight,” said Bronze Yohn, grinding his teeth.

 

The Blackfish wondered about the cause of what appeared to be profound agitation, which the man barely held back.

 

Brynden Tully questioned what strength remained of the Reach and mentioned it, “When they laid siege to Riverrun, the Lannisters did not employ Tyrell arms. They marched with Riverland levies, whose loyalty they could not be certain of. Furthermore, it was not as if they had no need of the Tyrell bannermen. The Lannister and Frey host was not large enough to overwhelm our garrison easily. They’d have taken the castle, most like, but it would’ve been a bloody affair. I must question the demands the Lannisters are placing on Highgarden’s forces, and if they spread their allies too thin. They control King’s Landing, yes, but how strong is their hold elsewhere?”

 

Yohn disclosed what he knew, “Ser Lothor Brune fought in the defense of King’s Landing at the Battle of the Blackwater. I wasn’t sure what to do with the captain of Littlefinger’s guard. When I questioned him, Brune said that he was among those who cut through Lord Stannis’s besiegers. The combined host of Lord Mace Tyrell and Lord Tywin Lannister, which reinforced the city’s defenses and won the day, had some eighty thousand men.”

 

Jon gasped. “That cannot be, my lord.”

 

Royce stated, “Ser, the night Lord Renly Baratheon was slain, he had only his army’s horse with him, near on twenty thousand knights. He’d left his foot behind, in the fields near Bitterbridge. After the murder, a portion of the knights left with Loras Tyrell.” Yohn Royce grimaced at the name. “But, most took up Stannis’s banner. Tyrell rode back along the Roseroad and gathered the assembled foot camped around Lord Caswell’s bridge.”

 

Brynden said, “So Stannis retained his brother’s cavalry, and Lord Tyrell ended up with the infantry.”

 

Yohn nodded.

 

“And Renly’s host met again on the Blackwater,” Jon surmised, “just on opposite sides.”

 

“Yes,” answered Yohn. “Renly’s levies lost their leader, but found a new one in Lord Tywin.”

 

“But Lord Tywin is dead,” Sansa mentioned.

 

Yohn said, “Yes, my lady. Killed by his son, your-” Yohn paused at a sharp look from Ser Jon, “. . . _the Imp_ , four and a half moons ago. Queen Cersei took over the regency, then her uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister, after her arrest.”

 

Brynden pulled their talks back to the actions available to them, “How many men can the Vale raise?”

 

“The six of us in the Lords Declarant could field twenty thousand, ser. The Vale on whole? Between forty and fifty thousand. Though if we march, I’d not leave our coast unguarded. Let us say five-and-thirty to five-and-forty thousand good men.”

 

Jon’s sigh and Sansa’s face reflected Brynden’s own feelings on the odds against them. _Our enemies out number us twice over, mayhaps more._

 

Brynden, Jon, and Yohn were resolute in their desires to find a way to salvage King Robb’s fight. The Blackfish had to think of his nephew, Lord Edmure, who remained a hostage to their enemies. He believed Jon wished to go to war for justice for his brother. As for Yohn’s motivation, honor was like to be at its heart. The Blackfish wasn’t sure about his niece’s feelings, however.

 

Yohn resumed his summary of the strength of their foes, “We’ll not see that full number in any single battle, Ser Jon.”

 

Before disclosing any specifics, Yohn reminded that his count was from various reports he received in addition to Lothor Brune’s statements, but that they were far from definitive.

 

“From the men they had on the Blackwater, the Tyrells marched their wedding attendees back to the Reach with some five thousand swords.” He scratched his beard. “Something about Brightwater Keep was rumored too, but Brune did not know, or say, what. Lord Mace, though, marched on Storm’s End and sent a force of his bannermen to the Riverlands.”

 

“And the Lannisters' own forces, my lord?” asked Jon.

 

“It seems that Cersei Lannister, or mayhaps Kevan, dismissed most of the twenty thousand in Tywin’s host, sending them back to the Westerlands.”

 

 “Likely to rebuild and tend to what is left of their harvests,” Brynden added.

 

“If threatened,” Yohn noted, “the lords sworn to Casterly Rock are like to recall those levies. But, it would take time.”

 

“The five thousand levies they kept,” he continued, “split between shipping off to take Dragonstone and the Siege of Riverrun.” He glanced at Brynden, “As you well saw before making your escape.”

 

The Blackfish tried to sound hopeful as he said, “When King Robb marched south, he took only what men he could assemble on short warning. Remember, he was aiming to save Lord Eddard, not stage a full campaign. His lords thought they might raise another host with more time, a larger one even. I heard Lord Manderly’s heir. . . I’ll recall his name anon. . . claim his father could raise another ten thousand, though they’d need to be trained up. If the other high lords. . . could bring even close to that. . .” he trailed off wondering how different the War of the Five Kings might have gone if his grand-nephew had waited longer.

 

_He might have won, but he would have forgone any chance to save his father. And the Young Wolf would never have reached Riverrun and lifted the Kingslayer’s siege as soon as he did._

 

“With Bolton in power,” Jon countered, “who knows how stands the North now. They’d raise their banners for Sansa, have no doubt, but how can they hope to train soldiers without Bolton taking notice and smashing their levies before they are ready? And, winter is coming.”

 

Ser Jon stopped as he realized the words he’d just uttered. After a moment, he shook his head. “If we have not the number for a blunt assault, then what?”

 

Bronze Yohn asked, “Ser Brynden, might we call upon any allies in the Riverlands? Some lords must still be loyal to House Tully.”

 

“If only it were so simple as that, my lord,” he returned. “Take Lord Piper, Yohn. Clement is as true a man as you’ll ever find. But his sons, Ser Marq and Little Lew died years ago. His nephew and heir, Ser Patrek Piper, was captured at Edmure’s wedding. Lord Clement only joined Lannister and Frey in attacking me at Riverrun under the threat of losing his nephew too. I expect that the Lannisters or Freys retain hostages for nearly every one of the lords of the Riverlands.

 

“No,” Brynden concluded, “we cannot ask them to add to our numbers. We must do the alternative; we must needs dwindle the Lannister levies or convert their allies to our cause.”

 

Jon asked, “After what Walder Frey and Roose Bolton did, how can any man stand with them?”

 

“No matter what dishonor their allies carry,” Brynden Tully offered. “The choice is not an easy matter of what is honorable, when facing down an enemy stronger than yourself. They bent the knee to the lion, not the bridged towers. That the murders did not occur under Lord Tywin’s roof, aids in the excuse.”

 

“The lords of the Reach, then,” said Yohn. “But how would we topple their forces?”

 

“With great difficulty,” he answered. “If we were to face them in the field, that is. Might be we could win them to our side. Else, we need only convince their liege lord, Mace Tyrell, not to march on us while we take back what lands we can.”

 

Bronze Yohn looked at Brynden skeptically.

 

“What harm is it to Highgarden if some castles in the Riverlands are returned to their rightful Lord Paramount? And in the North? That should matter to Lord Tyrell even less. A truce of non-aggression is all we need, failing our ability to turn them.”

 

“But Tommen is their king,” said Jon.

 

Brynden couldn’t resist smiling at him. _No matter his skill with a sword, this one is still a boy at his core._ “Some lords value opportunity over their own loyalty, Ser Jon.”

 

Sansa hesitated and furrowed her brow.

 

“What is it, my girl?”

 

“This is important. . . You need to know that the Tyrells mean to betray the Lannisters. They already have, in fact.”

 

Both Yohn and Brynden were uncertain and watched her continue. “Lord Tyrion had no part in poisoning Joffrey. Lord Petyr spirited me away before anyone could charge me as his helper.

 

“Lord Petyr saved my life by doing that. Queen Cersei’s fury could be. . . I shudder to think what she might have done to me.” 

 

“You?” Jon asked. “She would have blamed _you_? Lannister is a hateful woman, aye. But would she think to harm you, Sansa?”

 

She lowered her eyes. “I’m not entirely without blame. I didn’t mean to, but. . . Lady Olenna Tyrell used me in her scheme.”

 

“How so?” asked Brynden.

 

“I . . . carried a poison amethyst into the feast.” She looked at Jon. “I didn’t mean to, I swear it! I . . . didn’t even know.” Sansa turned back to Brynden and said, “It was she who took it from me, Lady Olenna.”

 

The Blackfish wondered, “So the Imp was innocent?”

 

“Yes, Uncle.”

 

The girl was not yet comfortable in this discussion, but Brynden saw a hint of her mother’s wits in her.

 

Sansa added, “In King’s Landing, Margaery Tyrell and her grandmother sought to marry me to Willas Tyrell, Lord Mace’s heir. I do not . . . wish to be sold off for my claim again, but if Willas is all that they proclaimed him to be. . . or much like his brothers. . .”

 

Yohn Royce scoffed at that.

 

Brynden did not wish for Sansa to be dismayed by Yohn’s frustration, whatever his reason. “Thank you, _Your Grace_ ,” he replied with an affectionate smile. “A marriage to House Tyrell might be enough to save us a direct confrontation.”

 

 _Mayhaps even to sway them to our side,_ Brynden hoped.

 

“But what of Ser Harrold?” asked Yohn, abruptly.

 

“With all that has happened. . . he might not wish for a wedding,” Sansa said. “Ask him if he wants to proceed, my lord. The betrothal wasn’t finished. After my deception and with my. . . my _tether_ to Lord Tyrion, I would take no offense if he wants to forget about it, my lord.”

 

Lord Royce gave her an inquisitive look, but she said no more on the subject.

 

“To make Margaery queen,” Sansa told them, “they will not surrender King Tommen. If we support the young king, and Lady Margaery too, House Tyrell wouldn’t go to war against us.”

 

“Can you be sure?” questioned Lord Yohn.

 

Jon’s question burst in, “The _boy-king_ , Sansa? Tommen? You cannot be suggesting we just let the Lannisters win. After everything they’ve done?”

 

Sansa looked at her hands, embarrassed.

 

“Lad,” the Blackfish of Riverrun addressed Ser Jon. “Peace is rarely to everyone’s liking, but always to their benefit. Tommen is neither his dead brother, nor the Kingslayer. Reclaiming Winterfell and Riverrun, as well as your sister’s safety may depend upon brokering an unpalatable truce.”

 

The young man glanced at his half-sister and gave her a slow nod. “Our uncle, Benjen, said something much the same, ser.”

 

Bronze Yohn asked, “Ser Jon, if Sansa becomes Lady of Winterfell, won’t Benjen Stark press his claim? What if he hears of Robb Stark’s decision from another of his bannermen? Shouldn’t we account for that?”

 

“No,” he answered. “Benjen would no more seek to usurp Sansa’s place than I would. And . . .” he hesitated. “He will stay on his Wall. No matter what follows, he’ll keep to his vows and to his men as Lord Commander.”

 

Brynden could grasp that Jon had unresolved contention with his uncle. _Duty can be difficult enough to adhere to, my boy. When one’s duty to his family conflicts with his duty to his oaths, it can be impossible. Lord Commander Stark might have made the wrong choice, but do not judge too harshly._ The Blackfish resolved to speak to Jon privately.

 

The Lord of Runestone leaned back in his chair, quite pleased. A struggle between the lions and the roses would give him the opening to cease waiting behind the mountains while others decided the fate of the realm.

 

“If Stannis’s claims are true,” said the Blackfish. “And I, for one, do not doubt his word; Stannis Baratheon is many things, but a liar is not among them; then Tommen is a bastard.” Brynden scratched his beard and pondered the next step in his line of thinking.

 

“So we’ll back Lord Stannis? _King_ Stannis?” asked Jon.

 

Bronze Yohn responded, “Stannis Baratheon fled all the way to the Wall after finding himself crushed against the gates of King’s Landing.”

 

“My lord? What did you say?” Jon looked shocked.

 

Lord Royce explained, “There was wildling battle, ser.  The fighting took place about four moon turns ago, but details are sparse and inconsistent. The story came to me indirectly and well after Lord Stannis and the Night’s Watch threw back the savages.”

 

He paused for a breath. “I’ve not seen a raven from Castle Black since the one that carried news of my son Waymar’s disappearance, two years and two months past.”

 

“I shall have Maester Coleman write to the Night’s Watch,” Brynden assured them. “I am certain Lord Commander Stark will be eager to hear of his niece and nephew, and we can ask if your boy returned as yet, Yohn .”

 

“But, Ser Brynden. . .” said Sansa.

 

“Don’t worry,” Jon told her. “Ser, I’ll tell the maester what to write so Benjen will know that we are alright, but anyone else who reads it wouldn’t, should the bird not reach him.”

 

Bronze Yohn appeared to be lost in his worries for his youngest son. _Two years is a long time for anyone to be missing. For a man in the Night’s Watch? His odds are far more dire._

 

Yohn Royce grabbed the edge of the table and pushed himself back. The harsh sound of his chair scraping against the stone floor caught the attention of the three others in the room. Lord Royce stood up and paced away from them.

 

“Where have our talks gotten us?” he asked gruffly. “Lannisters, Tyrells, Stannis Baratheon. . . What are we even speaking of any longer?”

 

Brynden gave the man a moment to breathe.

 

His gnarled hands gripped his thick, grey hair. The Lord of Runestone was not prone to fits of ire, and seeing him thusly gave Brynden pause; standing behind Jon and Sansa, he looked as strong as an aurochs.

 

“I’m not some green lordling,” he directed at no one. “I know the ways of combat, in war and in knightly contests. There are codes of honor to both.”

 

Sansa cast a worried look to Brynden. He didn’t know what to tell the girl, but Jon’s hand patted her arm.

 

Ser Brynden didn’t know if it would be better to steer their talks away from the topic or to ask Yohn Royce about the comments he’d let hang in the air. Before the Blackfish decided, Lord Royce continued unprompted, “We may have to make peace with House Tyrell. Yes, I can discern the need for it. But even if we do,” he rounded back towards them, “I mean to challenge that arrogant, murdering _Knight of Blossoms._ ”

 

_Who?_

 

From across the room, Royce recognized the lack of understanding on Brynden’s face.

 

“Loras _buggering_ Tyrell, Bryn. Did you not hear? About Robar?!”

 

Confused, Ser Jon looked to Brynden, who said quietly, “Three sons: Andar, Robar, then Waymar.”

 

Lord Royce snorted.

 

“First, the Tyrell boy splits Robar’s shield in the joust of the Hand’s tourney, to honor the father of these two.” He waved at Jon and Sansa, but kept his grey eyes trained on Brynden. “Knights suffer injuries in the lists. Tyrell keeps his seat and my Robar falls, this happens. But to prance around the jousting ground gifting roses to maidens, while your opponent still writhes in pain?! Disrespectful, dishonorable, I say.”

 

Brynden heard Sansa whisper faintly, “ _No victory is half so beautiful as you.”_

 

Yohn was too far across the room and too far into his anger to hear her. He resumed, “Robar recovers and later searches out glory in _King_ Renly’s army. He is even given a set of red armor in the pretender-king’s _Rainbow Guard_. He died in that red armor. Lord Eldon Estermont had honor enough to put my son’s bones and his cursed set of plate on a merchant vessel.

 

“Ser Loras Tyrell,” he uttered, his words seeped in bitterness. “ _Lord Commander_ Loras Tyrell of Renly’s Rainbow Guard. Slays his sworn brother. ‘In a fit of madness over the death of his king,’ Estermont’s man said. As if that would make up for the murder. He didn’t just kill _Robar the Red_ , he killed _Robar Royce_ , my boy.”

 

“I hadn’t heard,” Brynden told him. “Yohn, my sympathies.”

 

Lord Royce didn’t thank him. “We shall make peace with his father, if we must. Might be, his lame brother is a good man, even. A knight of the Kingsguard, whether in white or emblazoned in color, no longer represents his house in his actions; he represents his king and himself. Once the war is through, I mean to kill that boy. Single combat, whether he wills it or not.”

 

The silence felt long and heavy.

 

Brynden looked to Sansa and Jon, then said, “And none of us here will interfere, my lord.”

 

The silence remained until the Blackfish heard Sansa’s voice.

 

“My lord? Ser Brynden?” she uttered. Yohn was quiet and did not return to the table. The Blackfish motioned with his hand, beckoning for the girl to speak.

 

“We spoke of kings. If not Prince Tommen or Lord Stannis, who else has a claim to the Iron Throne? I know of . . . never mind. She, I, it’s a passing thought and a stupid one.”

 

 _She? What woman has a claim?_ Brynden clutched his chin. _Cersei Lannister? Tommen’s sister? No. . ._

 

_The girl._

 

“Yohn,” he called. “Yohn!” The burly lord turned his shoulders to face him. “The girl. _Robert’s_ girl.”

 

“You mean. . .?”

 

“Yes, my lord.” Brynden turned his eyes to Sansa. “Quite clever, my lady. Not _stupid_ in the least.”

 

“Who?” questioned Jon.

 

Yohn answered, “They propose to put _Mya Stone_ on the throne, King Robert’s bastard daughter.”

 

“Better _his_ bastard, than the Kingslayer’s,” replied Brynden Tully.

 

“And, my lord,” offered Sansa. “With her claim, we could. . .” She took a deep breath. “We could offer her hand in an alliance. The House of whomever you choose, my lord, would be in line for the crown.”

 

_King Robert’s claim after the rebellion was through his Targaryen grandmother. Claiming the throne through a marriage to Robert’s blood, even bastard blood, is not so different._

 

Rubbing his beard, Yohn Royce returned to his seat. “The older Tyrell son, then?”

 

“Willas Tyrell, my lord.”

 

_That’ll get the attention of Lord Mace._

 

Bronze Yohn shifted, regarding the idea. The others watched him. He stated, flatly but politely, “I cannot imagine Lord Tyrell marrying his heir to a bastard.”

 

“The Tyrells would be kings,” Brynden responded.

 

Sansa said, “Lord Mace would likely agree to _anything,_ if we help make that come to pass.”

 

Morosely, Jon added, “His daughter already wed a bastard for a crown, why not his son?”

 

“What of Mya, then?” Yohn persisted. “We’d likely have to tie the girl up and haul her to King’s Landing if we are to deprive the girl of her mountain and her mules.”

 

Brynden said, “This is only the beginnings of a plan, my lord. We can offer the match as an enticement, but include the caveat that the girl must needs agree, once she’d been afforded the chance to meet the boy.”

 

“Where would that leave the Vale?”

 

Sansa’s fidgeting disclosed her nervousness, but still she looked ready and attentive. “My lord,” she said. “We would need to rid the Riverlands of Freys and the North of Boltons. And then three of the nine regions of Westeros would be united.”

 

“By blood, loyalty, and common cause,” supplied Brynden.

 

“And likely bound for generations to come,” Sansa continued. “Also. . . Lord Yohn, am I correct that should war begin for your army, Ser Harry would like to fight?”

 

Brynden watched him nod to her.

 

“We would need to name a second heir, should he fall. Mayhaps we could choose an unwed young man from a lesser Arryn branch. Is there any unmarried girl in House Royce?”

 

“Hmm. . . So after the fighting, the Starks and Tullys would be returned to their rightful titles, the Vale led by Lord Robert, supported by and bound to House Royce. . .” Yohn’s musings trailed off.

 

“Lady Randa is a sweet girl,” Brynden interjected. “And even though you suggested me as a match for her, I am old enough to be her father.”

 

Jon gave him a mischievous smile.

 

The Blackfish let out a hoarse, roguish laugh. “Seven hells, lad! Her _grand_ father, then.”

 

Bronze Yohn hadn’t been listening. “Myranda Royce and the third in line for the Eyrie. . .”

 

_A thousand thanks, you clever girl._

 

He doubted that Sansa knew of his aversion to marriage, but even marking that as coincidence, her thinking impressed him.

 

“So Yohn, old friend, we broker an alliance with the Lord Mace by indicating an openness to the _prospect_ of a Mya Stone and Willas Tyrell marriage, provided she consents. Or even the prospect of a match with Sansa, as they had earlier wished for.”

 

 _But we’ll keep mum on your desire to spill his younger son’s blood,_ Brynden thought, but left unsaid.

 

“If they reject us,” mused the Blackfish, “we are no worse off. And as my dear niece mentioned, the prospect of a Tyrell _king_ , instead of a _queen_ , might serve to swing their allegiance.”

 

The expression on his face belayed his consent, though Bronze Yohn did not yet voice his feelings on this over-arching proposal.

 

Lord Royce wanted to admit the other two Lords Declarant lingering at the Gates of the Moon, Lady Waynwood and Ser Symon Templeton, to their council. Knowing that their retinues of stewards and knights would likely wish to join, Brynden insisted that they were still settling only general strategy at present and that it was not yet time to introduce others to their talks. In truth, he wanted to avoid the posturing and squabbles that too often arose when committees sat while uncertain of their leader.

 

Bronze Yohn sent for mulled wine and a platter of brazed meats.

 

The Blackfish and the Whitewolf pushed three tables together to join their maps of the Vale, the Riverlands and Westerlands, and the North.

 

Once ready, Yohn Royce advanced his notion of striking at Harrenhal first, “I believe that we’ll find it lightly guarded, considering the castle has changed hands several times, and Lord Tywin would have wanted most of his strength with him when he marched from its walls. His brother, Lord Regent Kevan Lannister, is unlikely to have sent swords to reinforce it. In title, Harrenhal is the paramount seat in the Riverlands. As a first victory, it would display our strength to enemies and potential allies alike.”

 

Ser Jon wanted to make for the Twins. “They are the last, true power in the Riverlands. We lose all advantage of surprise after our first attack. Let us make that attack worthwhile.”

 

_And they would deserve your vengeance, lad._

 

Sansa watched them move the coins, mugs, and knives they used as proxies to represent armies.

 

When Jon marched the army of the Vale into the Riverlands, the Blackfish reminded him about the Mountain Pass and he cursed the onset of winter.

 

Lady Sansa spoke up, “Uncle, does that mean any attack must needs make use of Gulltown ships?”

 

Lord Yohn answered for him, “Gulltown is a trade port, my lady, not a fortress. The Vale has far more merchant vessels than warships.”

 

“If we are traveling by sea regardless, why not come ashore along the Blackwater and make an end to all this?” Brynden japed.

 

Yohn liked the idea for its merits, rather than humor.

 

Jon added details about the state of King’s Landing, “The Gold Cloaks can barely contain the armies of the Faith. I don’t know if Kevan Lannister has done anything to appease or to combat the Warrior’s Sons and the Poor Fellows, and half a dozen other unnamed bands of armed followers of the Faith and the High Septon.”

 

“But,” he continued. “Lord Tarly was on his way from Maidenpool with his host. He won’t leave until his liege lord’s daughter is freed. And Lord Tyrell, himself, is like to be headed there. Either or both might already be within the city, too.”

 

After Jon finished, Brynden, Yohn, and Sansa exchanged glances. Sansa Stark voiced their question, “Ser Jon, what of your newfound dragon? Can we make use of her?”

 

“ _Her?_ ” Brynden and Yohn asked in unison.

 

“Aye, her,” Jon said, embarrassed but resolute. “She’ll fight with us, same as Ghost. But Viserion is dangerous to your forces as well as our enemies’. And, I don’t know if she can be killed by an arrow or rocks, or what.”

 

He agreed to spend the following day looking into her capabilities.

 

The Blackfish renewed their earlier thoughts, “If we indeed agree on the Twins as our target, Gulltown’s merchant ships might serve to travel up the Trident. If a contingent travels on trade barges, Walder Frey might not see them as a threat.”

 

“My lord,” Sansa weighed her next words for a moment. “We could send emissaries to the Twins offering to sell food and other supplies, whatever he is short of after his dealings in this war. When he agrees, we send soldiers instead.”

 

The Blackfish quirked an eyebrow, pleasantly impressed by this little strategist.

 

Jon furthered the idea, “The same could be done for Riverrun, in case he rejects us.”

 

“Also,” he noted, “if the messenger is too eager, both Lords Frey might expect a trap. Your messenger should squeeze out what gold he can.”

 

Ser Brynden and Lord Royce consented to the plan. Yohn said that he would ride to Gulltown and send traders to Riverrun and the Crossing in his name, with ravens to bring word back.

 

“And,” continued Bronze Yohn. “I’ll ready my men.”

* * *

 


	37. Jon - Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick, fun chapter. Happy Fourth and happy long weekend!

Thin, white flurries landed with the new day. Ghost at his side, Jon walked to Viserion’s barn. When he got there, the doors were already open.

 

Jon looked up and saw the pale, white dragon atop the barn, stretching her neck. _Better there than on the roof of an Eyrie tower._ The barn door’s latch had been gnawed off. Inside, the horses enjoyed an overturned barrel of feed. Stranger snorted at him, challenging Jon to try to take the barrel. Drifts’s disposition was cheerful, rather than combative.

 

“You both probably have Viserion to thank for this morning’s bounty.”

 

Jon waved for his dragon to follow him around to the opposite side of castle. She complied, but preferred to fly there.

 

He paced over to the dragon’s side and told her, “I mean to find out how tough your scales are. This is only a blunted practice sword.” Jon gave her a half-speed strike, and Viserion didn’t flinch. In response, she beckoned with a nod for him to swing harder, and he did so. She leaned away from the second blow, but did not cry out.

 

“Don’t try to act tough, dragon. This is important.”

 

Jon stroked her side and then reached out for her mind. Sharing her skin, he swung again and felt the force of his own sword. _It is like being hit through studded leather._

 

He whispered, “Next I need to see if you can be cut.”

 

Jon’s hands drew his dagger. He could feel the edge skim across his scales, but knew it didn’t pierce through. _Slide the edge into the overlap_ , he thought.

 

The shallow cut stung. In place of a trickle of blood, steam flowed out from between the scales. He touched the blade with his own fingers. _It’s hot!_

 

Jon relaxed his thoughts and pricked his thumb.

 

_Viserion, could you feel that?_

 

Jon’s direwolf bounded over to his side.

 

 _Did you feel that as well, Ghost?_ Jon wondered. _How far does a connection like this extend? Could you feel the dagger when I pricked beneath the dragon’s scales?_

 

He suddenly got an idea and told them to stay put.

 

Jon found the castle’s blacksmith, Allyn, lazily hammering at a horseshoe. The smithy was little more than a stone shed, built beside a covered well.

 

He asked, “Have you experience armoring heavy cavalry?”

 

The smith turned from his work. “Aye, ser. Would you be asking after a full-bard? That’d be horse-helm, peytral, plate flanks, and all the rest?”

 

“Not at the nonce. I’m looking just for chainmail skirts for three mounts. The last of which is quite large.”

 

Jon was amused by his own subtlety, but of course the smith had watched him and Mya ride a dragon down the mountain at dusk, only two days prior.

 

“Mail for a dragon. . .” Allyn scratched his ash covered cheeks. The armorer told Jon to take a spool of demarcated rope and to find the measurements he needed. “I can only hope your other two mounts are horses, not wolves.”

 

* * *

 

When Jon returned, the smith was stoking the forge. “Getting it hot enough for steel rings will take a while, ser. How ‘bout coming back in a’ hour or two?”

 

Ser Jon had an intriguing thought. He said, “Why wait?”

 

He whistled and called out with his thoughts. Moments later, a scaly neck arched its horned head through the entryway.

 

The smith mumbled about his forge burning to the ground, but Jon assured him that he knew what he was doing; despite being no more certain about this than the blacksmith was.

 

Jon put on a thick, black glove and pulled open the door to the forge. He instructed Viserion, “Just a _little_ flame. First, a test.”

 

Wisps of smoke floated up from Viserion’s nostrils.

 

 _Just a little_ , he repeated in his thoughts.

 

Her first gasp was no more than a yellow flash. Next, the dragon held the flame. Jon watched intently as the furnace filled with golden fire, then orange, then a glowing red. The smith was just as amazed as Jon.

 

Viserion continued without increasing her flame, but inside the forge, the heat built. Red turned to blue. Blue turned to white.

 

The chimney groaned.

 

“Stop! Stop!” Allyn yelled.

 

Jon and Viserion stepped back.

 

Once he gathered his composure, Jon looked closer at the interior of the forge. The coal and wood had turned into a pile of ash. The brickstone walls wept like an icicle in the sun. Jon poked at them with steel tongs.

 

“Solid,” he observed. “They melted for only a moment.”

 

“Let ‘im try some steel!” shouted the smith.

 

Jon laughed at the man’s sudden glee.

 

The three of them spent the rest of the day burning and melting different objects they found.

 

“Stone’s the hardest to melt. Wood is the easiest,” Jon surmised.

 

The blacksmith chuckled and added, “I’d wager that your fingers would be the easiest, Ser Jon.”

 

Normally a smith would only heat his metal in the furnace and then do his shaping with a hammer upon an anvil. Viserion melted iron and even steel. Everything they tossed in came out with a changed shape and droplets hanging off its edges.

 

“Two giggling boys and their pet playing with a forge,” Mya Stone interrupted through the open window. “What would Ser Brynden say?”

 

Startled, Jon and the smith dropped the rusty, iron gate they’d been dragging across the floor. She laughed at them and announced that supper was already being served.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Jon guided the castle’s leatherworker through adjustments to a saddle. Instead of using a girth band and thin collar-strap, Jon needed this saddle to be secured like an over-the-shoulder pack, with sturdy and lengthy straps crossing over the chest. They affixed the stirrups from below as well as above. On horseback, a rider needed resistance when he pushed his heels downward. Jon guessed that he would need to be able to tug upwards also, while using this particular saddle.

 

Jon was watching the man shape an enlarged handhold when Allyn came bursting in.

 

“Ser! I got a’ idea. Me and the mason, we worked on it o’er the whole morning.”

 

Outside of the forge, Jon saw a huge slab of stone raise off the ground by bricks. “We thought that since yer dragon melts what steel we ask her to, might be she can melt steel _into_ what we want.”

 

Jon traced the freshly chiseled stone with his hand. The mason had cut the shape of a longsword into the rock.

 

“Might we try?” asked the stone carver. Jon grinned and whistled.

 

The mason backed away when Viserion landed, his hands shaking. The dragon poked at the slab with the tip of her snout.

 

The blacksmith returned with ignots of steel and laid them as evenly as he could in the recessed stone.

 

“Go ahead, she-dragon,” Allyn said, once he was ready.

 

The cold air steamed and the steel resisted the heat. Slowly, the steam thinned and the metal began to glow. The men stood back further and urged the dragon on. She filled her chest with a deep breath and blew a rush of fire.

 

The hilt of the sword faced her and glowed more brightly than the rest. Jon had to block the heat from his face with his hand. The smith warned him not to look directly at it. Jon turned his back and watched with his other eyes, the eyes accustomed to the searing brightness of fire.

 

“I think it’s ready,” he said.

 

Viserion closed her teeth.

 

The men stepped closer. The blacksmith brought forward a bucket of water and asked Jon to add handfuls of snow. “One more breath, dragon.”

 

The last wave brought the steel back to white hot. The smith quickly upturned the bucket over it, then ducked away from the cloud of steam.

 

The blade gave off a clear shine, one more reflective than any steel Jon had seen before. One side was beveled, having conformed to the cut stone. The other side was slightly rounded.

 

A fine layer of opaque grey clung to the surface around the hilt and crossguard. “The stone,” Jon realized. The section of the rock slab nearest Viserion had melted, like it had in the forge the day before.

 

When the sword cooled enough to touch, the blacksmith handed it to Jon. The handle felt like smooth stone in his palm. He turned the blade in the sun, watching the light reflect.

 

Though he’d already quenched it, the smith still needed to shape an edge to the sword. Allyn laid it in his brickstone forge, but the coal did not burn hot enough to affect the blade. Instead, Jon beckoned for the dragon and relayed the instructions to Viserion. The armorer hammered and folded the steel. He added a layer of cast iron, as he would with any other sword. He tempered it in the dragonsfire and when he was finished, they had a sword unlike any Jon had ever seen.

 

The sword had no need of leather, for the hilt was steel gilded with a faint layer of stone, which made for an outer skin to grip. The crossguard was two-toned and served as a border between the shades, stone and steel. The blade shined like polished silver and Jon counted six faint ripples from the smith’s folds. He could see his face in the sword, as clear as if he held up a looking glass. Turned at an angle, it looked deceptively like it was clear.

 

“Ice steel,” the mason called it.

 

_Ice._

 

Jon cringed at that name for any sword.

 

“Winter’s steel,” Jon amended. “If you insist on a name.”

 

After he was done studying it, Jon moved to hand the sword back.

 

The smith smiled at him. “It’s yours, ser. Keep it. Just come back on the morrow, I’ve more ideas.”

 


	38. Sansa - A Goodbye

Having returned to the Gates of the Moon, Bronze Yohn met Sansa, Jon, Lady Waynwood, Ser Symon Templeton, and Ser Brynden Tully in the room that, only a month ago, was Petyr Baelish’s solar.

 

“Lord Yohn,” said the Blackfish. “What news?”

 

“We received word back from our merchants at the Twins,” he replied. “Lord Walder eagerly awaits our ships. The letter says that he demanded twice as much food from our man as we initially offered. It is apparent that his negotiating skill won the day,” Yohn said with a smirk. “So, we should ready the ships.”

 

“What of Riverrun, my lord?” asked Brynden.

 

“We’ve not received a raven, as yet.”

 

Sansa listened patiently. She expected Ser Brynden to be more concerned with his family’s seat. As she watched Jon, however, she thought he would push for the Twins. _For revenge._

 

Jon spoke up, “Ser, I am certain we’ll hear soon enough. But, we cannot delay. My lords, let us ready the ships and the men. The second raven will arrive after we are underway.”

 

“We need to be mindful, Jon,” Brynden instructed him. “The party heading for the Twins must not leave until we know of Riverrun. The timing of the attacks is too important to put in jeopardy by departing too soon.”

 

Lady Waynwood, Ser Templeton, and Lord Royce agreed and Jon didn’t press the matter further. Still, Sansa could sense that he was not satisfied with their answers.

 

**

The sun had set when Sansa found Brynden Tully sitting alone in the solar he’d taken as his own. From the doorway, she watched him stare intently at the maps spread out across the several tables in front of him. Unthinkingly, he raised his mug to his lips only to find it empty. Brynden set it down, but kept his fingers wrapped around it.

 

Sansa Stark could see the resemblance between them. Her grand-uncle’s Tully features were similar to her own. Though his hair had turned to grey, likely many years ago, the shape of his face, his eyes, his chin and nose, all looked like those of her family.

 

_Is this what Robb would have looked like if he’d been allowed to grow to Ser Brynden’s age?_

 

Sansa stepped forward and he noticed her. “My lady, is there aught I can help with?”

 

“No, uncle. May I sit?”

 

He reached around the corner of the table and pushed out a chair for her. The Blackfish looked at her, whatever he’d been thinking about while staring at the maps forgotten.

 

He smiled at her. “Some thought is chasing through that head of yours, I can tell. You are free to say whatever you wish.”

 

Sansa wasn’t sure she had one particular thought that stood out, only a vague collection of wonderings.

 

_How do I even voice what I’m thinking?_

 

“Ser Brynden,” she began. “I didn’t mention it in front of Lord Royce, but I think I saw a hint of relief in your eyes when our talks turned away from you marrying Lady Myranda. . . Was I mistaken?”

 

The old knight made a mirthful scoff. “You’re a quick lass, if I may say so, my lady.”

 

She returned his smile. “I wonder if your reaction was due to the bride, not that you think anything disrespectful of Lady Randa -mayhaps she was just not close enough in age. Or. . . if your reaction was from _marriage_. Any marriage, that is.”

 

 _Am I open to a marriage of my own?_ Sansa thought behind her words. _Of taking a husband?_

 

“Not Lady Myranda, niece. In fact, I think we’d get on well, if age and other things did not block the way.”

 

“But. . .” Sansa hesitated.

 

He edged his chair closer and put a hand on her arm.

 

Her grand-uncle told her, “There is only us here, my girl. Go ahead.”

 

“But, the Tully words: _Family, Duty, Honor_. . . you never took a wife nor began a family of your own.”

 

“Oh, young Sansa,” he mused in his hoarse tones. “I _did_ have a family, though no children of mine own. Your aunt, Lady Lysa, and uncle, Lord Edmure, and your mother. . . they were all the family I ever needed.”

 

“Is that why you never married?” she asked.

 

“No.”

 

Ser Brynden’s demeanor gained a solemnity he didn’t carry a moment earlier. He said, “There’s not one answer. Long ago? Mayhaps. But, over the years, the reasons changed and grew more numerous, I suppose.”

 

He flicked his empty mug. It spun on the table, then fell off the edge. Brynden Tully huffed and broke the seriousness of the prior moment.

 

“Did you and Jon ever fight as children?”

 

Sansa thought of her lack of regard for her half-brother when she was younger. “No. . . But, I did have my share of rows and shouts with my sister, Arya.”

 

“Your grandfather and I had some epic shouting matches, my lady. He was destined to be Lord of Riverrun and I was destined to become the pain-in-his-arse, rebellious, little brother.”

 

He elaborated, “And as such, I was not one to follow his lead. Or, marry whom he wished me to. Him though. . . House Whent of Harrenhal was sworn to us Tullys. As one of our most prominent bannermen, we knew Lord Whent well . . . him and his family. My brother and I both took a liking to his cousin. Can you guess who that was?”

 

“Minisa Whent.” _Mother’s mother._

 

“Yes, my girl.” He laughed, brazen and roguish. “Oh, the fools young men are! You’d do well to remember that, lass. It was not that Minisa and I had some great love affair, torn apart by her marriage to my brother. Though, it might have seemed so to me at the time. No, we danced and laughed some and I lost my wits to thoughts of her.

 

“Thus, with the figurative barrel of wildfire waiting to ignite that my brother and I made for, his marriage became the source of . . . however one might describe such a thing. Like as not, you’ll laugh at your foolish uncle. And, I’d deserve it,” he said with a grin.

 

“My lord brother wed the girl. Next, he commanded me to marry . . .  what in the sevens hells was her first name?” He rubbed his brow, as if to coax the memory to the forefront. “Bethany! Bethany Redwyne. Well, I refused, as you could well guess, my dear girl. Choosing instead to pine for a woman I could never touch and to become the scoundrel that I am.”

 

Sansa asked him, “You spoke of many reasons. . .”

 

He shrugged. “Minisa, the chance to anger my brother, the freedom to roam as I pleased, a lack of desire to wed, a lack of need of it, and half a hundred other reasons, my girl.”

 

The Blackfish regarded her closely. “If I had to guess,” he began. “Might be you are wondering about my past for other reasons, Lady Sansa.”

 

“Yes.” _Joffrey. Tyrion._

 

“You have my word, lass, no one will force you into the clutches of a husband not of your choosing.”

 

He nudged her with his elbow. “Have you, mayhaps, ever met my former squire? This knight, Ser Who’s-it of House What’s-the-name, you know the one? If you _had_ met him, you’d know he’s like to chop the jaw off any who might even speak such a thing.”

 

Sansa laughed, bright and loud. At the sound of it, Brynden’s grin was wide and boyish.

 

She waited, just enjoying the moment’s levity.

 

He saw that she was holding back another worry. “What is it, my girl?”

 

_I’m worried for Jon, uncle. I’m worried about how sad he was when he told me about Lydrea._

 

She closed her eyes and just said what she felt, “Uncle, I don’t know what to do about Jon. He’s. . . I think he is fond of Mya Stone and that Mya Stone is _more than fond_ of him and if I should say anything or do anything or what.”

 

Brynden asked, “What about the lad’s Northern girl, the one who wrote him all those letters, the one so infatuated with my brooding squire? I had thought he meant to wed her.” Looking embarrassed, he confessed, “I’ve thought on so much else since being reunited with your half-brother, I hadn’t thought to ask after her. Did her father take issue with his birth?”

 

“No, they wed. . . ” She paused, remembering that day.

 

“It was the last time we were all together. . . Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Jon and I . . . That night, Arya and I shared a room in Jon’s holdfast. She refused to let me sleep, teasing me about dancing with a boy, Daryn, until she could no longer keep her eyes open. But Jon. . . I’d never seen him so full of joy.”

 

Brynden smiled, looking happy for Jon. Then, he glimpsed Sansa’s eyes.

 

_Oh no, I don’t mean to make you upset too._

 

“She isn’t. . . Oh,” he muttered as understanding dawned. “Sweetling, we’ve only settled on _raising the idea_ of a match to Lord Tyrell. I don’t know when, or even if, we’ll be able to propose the match. Or if Mya or Lord Tyrell would accept. All of us agreed on this as a distant strategy, but the more pressing tactics are what we need to be concerned about.

 

“If you are going to grow into a leader,” he told her. “You must remember that even the best mapped plans often go awry. It is just as likely that we’ll need to change them after our strikes against the Freys. Offering Mya’s hand might be the most prudent tact of the possibilities we can now anticipate, but we shall reevaluate our position before extending any offer.”

 

He softened his tone and expression. “She’s a stubborn one, Mya is. If something does come of their _fondness_ , Ser Jon is not like to grasp what he’d be getting himself into for the years and decades to come.”

 

She returned his smirk. “Jon can be determined, and stubborn as a mule himself. I rather like the match, Uncle.”

 

“But,” he said, wondering. “Before you made mention of Mya, you offered your own name as a match for Willas Tyrell in our early meeting.”

 

 “It would be the clever choice, ser,” she replied. “A match to consolidate our position.”

 

“A political match,” he scoffed. “That choice is not for tonight, my girl. We have time before we reach out to Highgarden about you or about Mya. And even then, we agreed to offer them only the possibility of a marriage.”

 

“I’ll think more on this, Uncle Brynden.”

 

“Don’t bother,” he said and loosed a coarse laugh. “Choices like this, you will know what you desire when you make your decision, not before. Most people spend ages fretting over this and that. The whole time, they’re either worrying about a choice that they aren’t yet ready to make, or they know what they wish and are only taking the time to find a way to justify it to themselves.

 

“So if the day comes, you’ll meet the Tyrell boy or someone else, learn what you can of him as a man and a lord, and when you’re ready to make your decision, you shall. Don’t make it before you meet the young man, or before you’re ready. And do not linger over the choice after you know what you truly want.”

 

* * *

 

The second raven arrived three mornings later.

 

Lord Yohn relayed its contents, “Our man indicates that Emmon Frey has no need for provisions at present and is loath to allow anyone he does not personally know into his castle.”

 

The Blackfish scoffed, “ _His_ castle? Bloody hells it’s his. This changes nothing.”

 

Sansa asked, “Ser, how can we proceed. . . if he refused us?”

 

“We shall send the riverboats on, my lady,” said Brynden Tully, “under the guise of a pushy seller.”

 

“So be it, as long as we’re off,” supplied Jon.

 

Lord Yohn gave out a gruff laugh and agreed, “The Vale has waited long enough.”

 

* * *

 

Jon came to her chambers on the day he was to depart for Gulltown. He knocked before entering, but didn’t wait for a reply.

 

“Sansa?” he whispered.

 

“I am awake, Jon. I could only sleep in starts and fits last night.”

 

He sighed. “I don’t mean to worry you. But, I must go.”

 

“I know.”

 

She had lost her family and never thought she’d see any of them again. Jon returning to her had been such a warm respite from her troubles. Seeing him these past four weeks had been joyous and excruciating.

 

Her heart ached for home, and Jon reminded her of everyone she’d lost. She felt ashamed that seeing him each day brought her pain as well as happiness. On more than one occasion, Sansa’s mind was elsewhere when she happened upon Jon in the castle. Each time, she instinctively expected to find Robb nearby or Arya trailing after him. It was all she could do in those instances to force a grin for Jon, no matter how much she knew he deserved a true smile.

 

“But I would not leave you unprotected.”

 

She had no idea what he meant until Ghost entered the room behind him.

 

Her heart leapt and broke when she saw the direwolf, as it often did. _Lady, I am so sorry._

 

Sansa rolled out of bed and bent over to hug the wolf.

 

When she looked up, Sansa saw a deep longing in Jon’s eyes. A sadness that could not be remedied. By the time she stood up and straightened her gown, his face returned to the stern look of determination that so often colored it.

 

“Ghost will protect you. Sansa, you are to keep him near. Understood?”

 

She nodded, her face matching the poise of his.

 

Jon’s expression lit with a momentary brightness. After a pause, he said, “Did you ever feel that Lady could read your moods? That on some instinct she just. . . I don’t know, _understood_ you?”

 

Her time with her direwolf had been woefully short.

 

“Not as such, Jon. But she did seem to take after me, just as Nymeria took after Arya.”

 

“Ghost may take after me, I suppose. But, while I’m gone, be watchful of how he adjusts to you. If you feel some unspoken connection, don’t shy from it.”

 

The tension in his eyes abated. “Above all, trust him. There is nothing more important to him than protecting you, _my lady sister_. He’ll keep you safe, at the cost of his own life, if need be. He would be proud to do so, if a danger required it. He cares about you, Sansa. Even more than you know.”

 

“I know he does, Jon.”

 

_I understand._

 

“And I’ll look after him, always,” said Sansa. “Because it seems to me, he could use some looking after.”

 

She couldn’t help but smile at her half-brother and ran a hand through Ghost’s fur.

 

“I will do it, Sansa. For Robb, and Bran and Rickon, and for your lady mother.”

 

They both knew that the Freys had not been the ones to kill their little brothers, but she understood what he meant. _Justice for our family._

 

She put her arms around him and Jon embraced her.

 

When she stepped back she dabbed the wetness from her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. Sansa looked at her brother sternly. “And you come back to me, Jon. Do you understand? No matter what, you have to come back.”

 

“I promise.” And with that, he left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews and comments are welcome! GRRM owns ASOIAF and I write this because I like to, not for any profit.


	39. Brynden - Ferrying to Riverrun

In Gulltown, Brynden Tully and Yohn Royce trusted their passage to the cadet branch of House Arryn in the city. They’d headed for the port after hearing back from their envoys. The Arryn-cousins were uncouth, but determined to prove their worth to the lords of the Vale. Having married foreign merchants for generations, the Gulltown Arryns were more familiar with trade-harbors than castles, which served the Blackfish’s purpose.

 

He knew eyes might be watching them closely. Eyes loyal to his enemies, or at least their coin. Word of his presence or an impending attack would be worth a handsome sum of gold, and mayhaps a lordship, to the right ears.

 

The knights and soldiers sworn to Lord Yohn and to Lady Waynwood entered Gulltown wearing common clothes and they did so only gradually over a period of four days.

 

In the daylight, they loaded provisions onto the ships, as well as arms and armor in similar crates. Subtly, more _dock workers_ went down into the holds, than returned for the next round of crates. Even the rowers were not to be made aware of the ship’s cargo before they set off.

 

The Blackfish and Bronze Yohn had to balance their need to bring as large a fighting party as they could, while not embarking with so large a train of boats that either of the Lords Frey would become suspicious. For each of their contingents, Brynden and Yohn had settled on five barges and three hundred soldiers to be hidden within. In addition, ten of the men-at-arms acted as shipguards on the decks of every boat. Ser Brynden knew that ships laden with foodstuffs would be expected to ferry their own garrison on the river, lest bandits or the remnants of an army look to overtake them. Without these men in plain view, their departure might look odd enough for some onlooker to wonder. Allocated thusly, they fit as many knights, men-at-arms, weaponry, and provisions as they could into the crates and cargo holds of their river barges.

 

_And not to forget the secret contents of Jon’s crate, the largest one loaded onto any of the ships. May the Warrior see them to their landing safely._

 

* * *

 

Once underway, the Blackfish had no diversion but his own thoughts. The cargo hold served as one large cabin for the fifty hidden men in his flat-bellied riverboat. The four trailing ships were situated similarly. They fashioned cots and hanging bunks as best they could in the cramped quarters. Two, port-hole windows on either side of the cabin provided their only light and fresh air.

 

Brynden thought of Sansa and Jeyne. _They’ll be safe with Lady Waynwood. Protected by the Bloody Gate and the snow, and staying at Gates of the Moon, they are beyond the reach of our enemies._

 

He recalled his final advice to Jon on the docks. “Your life is more valuable than any Frey’s death,” he’d said. “Set to right what you can, but do not throw away your own wellbeing carelessly.” Jon, brave as any knight could hope to be, still looked the part of his squire to the Blackfish’s eyes. Dutifully, the lad swore to be careful, though he wouldn’t pledge any more than that.

 

Brynden remembered leaving Bronze Yohn with only a knowing nod between them. With Ser Jon and his small host, Lord Yohn departed for the Twins. The Blackfish and men from Lady Waynwood’s garrison had waited to leave the following day, bound for Riverrun.

 

* * *

 

Out the port-hole, Brynden watched them pass four small children hopelessly waiting for a fish to bite whatever bait they’d put on the end of their string. It was no proper line and like to snap if indeed a fish went for it.

 

_Edmure would throw them some food. Whether he could spare it or not, he would have. It’s such an ignominious shame that the realm isn’t as it was ten years ago. He’s a good lad, always has been. Men like Robert Baratheon were meant for war. People overlooked his shortcomings in peace-time, no matter how ill-suited he was to ruling, because of his feats in war. My nephew is quite the opposite: clumsy in command of a battle or garrison, but he would have made for a gracious lord if only he had come into his title during a year of peace. With time, he might even have found his way, might have learned to command._

 

The Blackfish understood that taking Riverrun would not be enough. He had to capture someone worthy of a hostage exchange. _Even if we win back the castle, bring justice down upon the Freys and Boltons, and finally defeat the Lannisters, they’ll hang Edmure before they yield. . . unless they have reason not to._

 

* * *

 

After six-and-ten days on sea and river, Riverrun appeared in the distance. Several hundred yards in front of the Water Gate and stationed across the river, a boom awaited as an obstacle for their caravan of barges.

 

 _Just tell them all I said, just as I instructed, you quarter-blooded Arryn,_ Brynden silently urged from below. _Remember: ‘My orders are to present these goods to Lord Frey and no one else. If you doubt me, let my first ship pass. My guards will remain here. His lordship will like what he sees, I’d bet my neck on that.’_

 

The night before, the Blackfish had gone from ship to ship to be certain the Valemen, most from Lady Waynwood and some from Ser Symond Templeton, knew their orders.

 

“You are saving a castle, not sacking it,” Ser Brynden had told them. “No thieving, no raping, or you will be maimed and gelded. Attack the Frey garrison only. If you doubt a foe’s allegiances, shout, ‘For House Tully,’ before you charge. His reaction will tell you all you need know.”

 

He heard boots pacing on deck and muffled voices.

 

The plan was for Brynden, after his barge was allowed inside, to lead the soldiers in the first boat up onto the castle’s gate. Controlling it was essential. He would keep the portcullis raised long enough for all five ships and their three hundred men to get inside, before lowering it to stop any outside guards from giving chase.

 

_The distance between this guard-stop and the castle might be too far. It might ruin our plans._

 

He listened to the footsteps trailing off the boat. _Our guardsmen._ Soon after, he heard men boarding. _Frey guards?_

 

The creaking of oars and seaboards in the recessed bay above him was a welcome sound.

 

A sword slid from its scabbard and sounded out a metallic ring.

 

“Tsst!” _Another sound and I’ll kill you, right before they storm the boat and take my head._

 

Brynden counted the strokes and waited until he heard the oars being drawn in.

 

_Steady, we must be coasting beneath the archway and through the Water Gate._

 

He slowly drew his sword. In the shadowy hold, Brynden could tell that the figures around him moved and readied themselves.

 

 _Wait for the captain’s thumps,_ he thought, not daring even a whisper.

 

“Thud, thud.”

 

_Draw swords._

 

“Thud, thud.”

 

_Set places._

 

Brynden slowly unlatched the door to the hold and slid it open. He crept up the steps, all the while not taking his eyes off the next door, which opened onto the deck.

 

Tentatively, the men of the Vale filled in the planks behind him.

 

The Blackfish readied himself. _Once more, old man. You’ve faced worse and lived through. Just once more_.

 

_Do I chance a whisper?_

 

He turned to the man closest to him and leaned in. “Shield your eyes. The sun will blind you. Pass it back.”

 

Before the next man could be told, the door shot open.

 

Ser Brynden raised his shield and waited for a moment. _No one is charging us,_ he thought, smiling inside his helm.

 

“You will drop your swords!”

 

In that instant, the air fled his lungs. A figure holding a knife to the captain’s throat came into view.

 

 Brynden heard the man order, “Drop your swords!”

_Fuck the Freys._

 

“For Riverrun!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are welcomed!


	40. Jon - An Attack

Off in the distance, Jon saw the castle emerge around a bend in the Green Fork. He knew he would have to return to the barge’s hold soon, but he wanted to look at the ugly fortress first.

 

Pitched towers poked out from behind curtain walls. An arched bridge, made of the same flat-grey rock as the walls, joined the castles across the river. Moats around each made them look like islands all their own.

 

Other ships rowed to docks on the far banks, north of the bridge. _No doubt placed there so that any boat heading up the river would need pass under the bridge, opening itself to arrow fire from both castles and the Water Tower in the middle of the crossing, before landing on those docks._

 

On the western bank, a host set camp. _Are those the same pavilions I saw at the siege of Riverrun?_

 

“Go below, ser. We’re too close now,” said one of the men on deck.

 

Jon nodded. He took one last glance at the castles and descended into the cargo hold.

 

He returned to Viserion. They had the hold to themselves. Once the men had learned that he’d brought a dragon on-board, all but the brave few currently on-deck chose to station themselves on the other barges.

 

While Jon felt like pacing across the hold, his body abuzz with a mix of anxiousness, anger, and excitement, she crouched motionlessly.

 

Jon saw the dragon’s saddle on the floor. Inspecting it, he touched the straps that would curve above each of her shoulders, holding tight to her body, then crossing her chest and connecting to the triple stitching at the rear corners of the high-backed saddle. Under the straps, Jon intended her to wear a thin layer of interwoven ringmail. It was made of the same silvery steel as Jon’s sword and his own armor, each forged in Viserion’s flame. The dragon, however, had no desire to put on a saddle or ringmail. Jon tried once more to coax her into acquiescing, but, just as she had on all his earlier attempts, Viserion refused.

 

Giving up on the dragon’s gear, Ser Jon glanced down at his own. He prodded at the joints and fittings. This new plate was stronger than the set Mikken had made for him back in Winterfell. _Several lifetimes ago._ The armor he wore was thinner as well, this new steel resilient enough to not require the bulk of the standard metal. Over his sterling armor, he threw on his black surcoat, which Sansa had mended.

 

Jon pulled his sword free and peered down the length of it. _It is a good sword. May the gods help it to strike true._ Before donning his gauntlets, Jon brushed his thumb along the thin layer of stone encasing the hilt. In his hands, it was the second finest sword he’d ever held.

 

* * *

 

Jon and Robb had only seen eight name days when they first got it into their heads to test out their father’s greatsword. Eddard Stark did not wear steel often about Winterfell. Most days, his blade remained sheathed and in his chambers. That morning, Jon had the idea to go find it, though he would have refrained if Robb hadn’t agreed. So, they stole up to the top level of the Great Keep. Glancing around every corridor, the brothers saw no one in their path. When they pushed in their father’s door, they found Ice leaning against the wall beside the bed. Robb and Jon carried it to the center of the chamber together.

 

They both wanted to be the first to hold the sword.

 

“My idea, my turn!” Jon insisted. Thus, he held the hilt and Robb took the scabbard, and they pulled the greatsword free. It clanged to the floor, far too heavy for Jon.

 

Together, both boys gripped the hilt, their hands alternating up it.

 

“One, two, three,” they counted off together.

 

In the moment that the boys held it aloft, they stared in awe at the Valyrian steel. The dark ripples of a hundred folds shimmered in the dim room.

 

But, the weight of it threw them off balance. Jon stumbled back, and Robb with him. Ice fell onto them and clamored loudly.

 

Before they could get up and try to lift it again, their father came running in.

 

“What are you two- Oh. Are you boys alright?”

 

They looked at each other, then saw blood on their hands. Jon’s thumb and Robb’s palm were opened with thin cuts. The edge was so sharp, neither had even noticed.

 

Ned Stark shook his head and a wry grin crossed his face. Robb and Jon disentangled their legs and elbows. Jon dragged the sword to his lord father, by the pommel.

 

“One day,” he told them, “both of you will be strong enough to wield swords of your own. I look forward to seeing you then. But until that day, you are not to touch this sword again. Understood?”

 

He gave his sons playful shoves toward the door, and Jon looked back to see his father hold up his greatsword to have a look down its length.

 

* * *

 

Still staring down the length of his own sword, Jon was satisfied with the look of its edge. _Forged in a dragon’s fire, like some legends claim the Valyrians once did, and just like the other swords Viserion and Allyn the smith made._

 

In the weeks between when the blacksmith and the dragon crafted his blade and when the knights and soldiers left for Gulltown, they created Jon’s armor as well as weapons that Jon gave to Ser Brynden, Bronze Yohn, and Ser Albar Royce. Lord Yohn was gracious, and Ser Albar promised to use his to guard the Gates of the Moon and Lady Sansa.

 

The Blackfish was impressed with the feel of his sword, which Jon had hoped for. The grey-haired knight preferred to balance his blade with more weight in the crossguard and a relatively light pommel. The sword Jon presented to him fit his taste from hilt to tip. _I tended your longsword  near on every day for two years, ser. I could’ve instructed Allyn to craft it from memory, even if I hadn’t stolen off with your sword to model._

 

 _The armor was an indulgence_ , Ser Jon admitted to himself. His dragon allowed for the crafting of exceptional works from the unique metal his fire created out of ordinary steel. That ability might have been put to better use in the short time they had before departing the Gates of the Moon. _I did need to do something about my set of plate and mail._ The fittings of his armor were worn and battered, more from travel and the elements, than from battle. _Though, mending mine would’ve been swifter than forging it anew._ But, Jon had wanted a full guard made from dragon-forged steel and Allyn the smith had been all too eager to make the attempt.

 

He struck the flat of his blade against the solid steel vambrace on his forearm. The ring of metal against metal sounded quiet and clean. Jon then sheathed his longsword on his hip for the nonce.

 

He put on his helm and gauntlets and listened for any noises from on deck.

 

Ser Jon heard nothing for what seemed like hours.

 

In a flurry, panicked footsteps raced down the stair to Jon’s hold.

 

“Ser! We’ve trouble ahead!”

 

On deck, Jon saw the threat. Rather than allowing the ships to land, men of the Crossing rowed out to meet them.

 

_No doubt Bronze Yohn won’t be mistaken for salted beef._

 

Ser Jon had been ordered to keep his dragon hidden until Lord Yohn’s men were off the boats. On the river, they were vulnerable. If the Freys suspected a deception, they could easily launch a volley of fire-arrows and hefty stones, down at the boats. Heavily armored, most men would drown before they could swim half way to shore.

 

Nonetheless, their deception was about to be uncovered and so would begin the Freys' response.

 

“Help me with the cargo hatch,” Jon told the crewman. Once it was open, he could look straight down into the hold.

 

_Viserion, they need us sooner than we thought._

 

He asked, “Ready, dragon?”

 

The she-dragon pulled herself up by the claws protruding from the fore-edge of her wings. Viserion didn’t give the deckhand a second thought. She leapt off the side of the barge before Jon had a chance to get on her back.

 

The dragon beat her wings and in seconds she was climbing into the wind.

 

Jon looked down through Viserion’s eyes and tried to shout to the patrol ships below. _Freys! I have come for vengeance!_

 

Viserion followed his thoughts with a shriek loud enough to reverberate through the bowels of the twin castles.

 

Sharing one skin, they flew over the bridge. Jon saw the men on the crenels of the Water Tower duck for cover, while those who’d been inside clamored up to see what was happening. Jon hoped the Frey guards rowing to Bronze Yohn’s boats were turning around to flee back to the fortress.

 

Viserion circled around the western keep.

 

_Let them feel your fire, dragon._

 

She swooped low and her golden fire scorched a path through the adjacent encampment. Viserion and Jon heard the screams as men below felt their flame.

 

Jon saw the clouded sky, before Viserion banked and descended upon the army again. The dragon could see the charred streak from her first pass. She blew her second breath faster, and the flames spread farther this time, rather than scorching a narrow lane. Viserion flew in a circle, tracing the outer edge of the encampment with her fire. _This flame will catch and reach out to engulf the entire camp. Turn back to the castle._

 

The sound of a bell drew the she-dragon’s attention. Viserion turned and saw a guard hammering at one on the wallwalk of the western twin.

 

_An alarm. He’s raised the alarm._

 

Viserion burnt him alive and didn’t even need catch her breath. Continuing her glide, she set her fire on a row of watchmen along the top of the wall.

 

She laughed at the sound of their agony below. Following her instinct, Viserion chased the wall around a corner, setting ablaze anyone on it.

 

A dragon’s sense of smell was useless except for sniffing at things right in front of its nostrils. But, the sight of the burnt bodies made Viserion’s mouth salivate. The dragon remembered that she hadn’t eaten all morning. She landed on the wall and bit into the leg of the man lying close by. She dug her claws into his torso and yanked the limb free with her teeth. Viserion then tore into the thigh-meat.

 

The dragon was disturbed from her meal by a pain in her back. She crooked her neck and swung her head around.

 

_An archer._

 

The arrow had pricked her, but didn’t pierce fully through the scales enwrapping her body. Viserion roared at him, but didn’t move from her perch until she was finished with her meal. She wolfed down the rest of the gamey meat.

 

Two more arrows flew by her head. Jon felt the sharp ridges on Viserion’s neck stand up. He could sense her anger at their gall.

 

_For Robb. These men are brazen and despicable. They should not be spared. Not a one._

 

The entwined pair fed each other’s fury. Together, they cast a stream of fire into the faces of the two bowmen. Once those men were burning, Viserion didn’t give them or their cries another thought. She and Jon looked across the castle, then down to the courtyard. They roared at the scurrying rodents.

 

The dragon and the knight rained fire. The ground was too far for any prey to burn, but the bright stream of flame was enough to scare all.

 

The dragon jumped off the guard-walk and took to the air. Jon angled her wings and flew across the river. He burned his enemies atop the curtain wall of the untouched, eastern castle. He completed a pass, killing any too foolish or frightened to take cover.

 

While flying back to the western shore, Jon saw that the inner walls framed the road through the castle, and to the enjoining bridge. The stone barriers cordoned off the keep and towers from admitted travelers just crossing to the opposite side of the river. But in the face of dragonsbreath, those same, inner walls impeded escape.

 

_But, to where would they go? Who is arrogant enough to think he can outrun a dragon?_

 

Viserion flew in a circle around the castle keep of the western side of the Twins. She spewed fire and watched it flow over its roof and down its rounded sides. Soon, smoke billowed from the uppermost windows. Cries rang out from inside.

 

_You did this, House Frey. You brought this down upon yourselves. You deserve to die for you crimes. For Robb._

 

To the dragon, all of the voices sounded alike, but not to Jon. Using her hearing, Jon could distinguish between the wails of men grown and those of others.

 

 _Children,_ he realized. _You are burning children in their home, in their bedrooms._

 

Jon forcefully closed the dragon’s mouth.

 

_We had a plan. Bronze. . . Bronze Yohn’s plan. Lord Yohn and his knights._

 

He corralled the dragon and they flew to the docks on the opposite side of the river. _The boats. Check on the boats._

 

Lord Royce’s barges were on the docks. The Frey guards had, instead, rowed under the bridge to seek refuge.

 

A dirt path lead from the sparse harbor around to the main entrance of the eastern castle. That entrance was a stand-alone guard house on the other side of the narrow moat. When Jon looked down at it through Viserion’s eyes, the drawbridge connecting it was already withdrawn.

 

Bronze Yohn’s men had yet to leave their boats.

 

_You need not fear this beast, my lord._

 

Viserion fluttered her wings as she descended, facing the castle wall closest to the docks. The milk-white dragon blew a dense flame as she slowly drifted to the ground. She caught her breath and looked up at the crevasse she’d made in the stone.

 

The pale rock was melted most of the way through. The edges of the concave curve bore droplets of rock, which looked like a hundred trickles of water all frozen in place.

 

From the ground, they blew golden fire at the wall. The heat and flame licked upward, and they continued to melt their way through. When Jon and Viserion were done, a twenty-foot high archway offered passage into the castle.

 

Jon opened his eyes.

 

“Ser! You fainted.”

 

“Aye,” he said, “but best you keep that to yourself,”

 

“The dragon- your dragon,” the man stammered. “It-it set fire to the castle. It’ll burn us too! I know it.”

 

Jon needed help getting to his feet. “You need not fear,” he said, balancing himself on his suddenly unfamiliar legs. “My dragon knows us from _Freys_.”

 

Carefully, he climbed off the boat and onto the docks. Jon waved for the soldiers in all five barges to follow.

 

Viserion crouched next to the hole in the curtain wall, picking at a dead man. The sight of the dragon eating a corpse abruptly turned Jon’s stomach. _If you must, dragon, then do it atop the high tower at the midpoint of the bridge._

 

Once she was gone, Bronze Yohn ran to Jon.

 

“Gods, Ser Jon! When I saw that beast spread its wings, I thought it escaped, that we were done for.”

 

“Not in the least, my lord.”

 

After his soldiers laid boards from the barges as planks across the narrow moat, Yohn Royce led the charge through the breech in the walls. From inside, they faced no significant obstacle to the keep. Though the towers on this side of the river were intact, all of the defenses were meant to keep besiegers out of this section of the castle layout. Because of Viserion, poorly barred doors were all that held the Valemen out of the main keep. Two soldiers alternated the swings of their axes until they were through the doors.

 

Men-at-arms met them with swords, but Jon joined the first line of attackers and added his shield to theirs. Together, they pushed into the keep.

 

A grand audience chamber provided the venue of their first combat. Jon and two others slashed at a Frey guard. All three swords found purchase and the enemy collapsed before any of them landed a second strike.

 

Within seconds, Yohn Royce and all three hundred of his knights and soldiers flooded into the hall and threw back the Frey guard. Jon took that moment to look about the room. It was a drab audience hall. House Frey appeared to have no imagination beyond their own castle. Every tapestry, even the gaudy ones that ran from ceiling to floor, depicted _The Crossing_. Two castles and a bridge between was the exclusive focus of every decoration.

 

Ser Jon caught sight of Lord Yohn in his engraved, bronze armor swatting a man-at-arms across the face with a mailed fist. “How many?!” He raised his hand again.

 

“No! Please m’lord! Ser Ryman was ‘posed to return with twelve ‘undred, but he ne’er did. I heard the Kingslayer ordered him from Riverrun and he left with his men, one ‘undred and a ‘alf again. They’s all dead.”

 

Jon walked over. “That part, at the least, is true, my lord. The remaining Freys followed Lannister to Raventree.” He looked down at the bloody man. “How many are inside the Twins? Forget about the soldiers in the encampment.”

 

Through the opened visor of his helm, the burly lord's eyes met Jon's. “Forget about them, Ser Jon?”

 

“The dragon burned most and scattered the rest, Lord Royce.”

 

Mention of Viserion was the push the guard needed. He told them about the three hundred in the eastern side, and the five hundred housed in the western.

 

“No more than forty killed on the walls of this castle, my lord,” Jon said. “The dragon burned much of the upper floors of the keep and towers on the far side, though. I don’t know how many will have died.”

 

Trembling, the guardsman said, “Less than a ‘undred would be in this keep, m’lords. The rest are ‘oled up in the barracks, most like.”

 

_Viserion, the barracks. They’re soldiers, not innocent childs. Burn it to the ground._

 

Jon knew he couldn’t mention his connection to the dragon, lest Yohn think him mad or a sorcerer. “If they are there, my lord, the dragon will smell them and root them out.”

 

Bronze Yohn nodded and asked no further questions.

 

The fight in the audience hall had died down, but additional combat awaited them higher in the keep.

 

Up the stairs, the men sworn to Runestone encountered resistance. At the end of the hallway on the second story, guards had overturned tables as a makeshift barricade. Some of them fired arrows at the approaching mass of shields and steel. One man suffered an arrow to his leg, but the others pushed on with their shields raised.

 

When the Vale soldiers reached them, the Frey swords slashed out. Each of them sprang up just long enough for a thrust or cut, before ducking back behind the upturned table. The width of the passageway offered no chance to maneuver around the Frey guards. It was barely wide enough for three armored Valemen to stand abreast, even with their shields overlapping. One of the three in front took a wound to his sword arm. Others pulled him away from the engagement, and Ser Jon quickly stepped to fill his place.

 

His right shoulder was up against the wall, and Jon didn’t have room to attack. With his shield raised, he couldn’t see his enemies. The man to Jon’s left turned his shield to the side and lunged out with his sword. Jon lowered his own shield for a moment, needing a glimpse of his foes. He saw men armed with swords just beyond the edge of the overturned table and bowmen behind them.

 

The crash of steel against steel boomed in Jon’s ears. He immediately raised his shield once more, in order to protect himself; it was an instinct honed over years upon years of sparing. _My helm,_ he realized. Jon had neither felt nor seen the sword that struck him, he only heard it ring inside his helm. Jon tapped on the rounded crown of his helmet and the sides of the wedge-shaped faceplate, and everything seemed in order.

 

Ser Jon glanced at the armor of the knight next to him. _Steel engraved with ancient runes._ Realizing who the man was, Jon said, “Andar!”

 

From behind his shield, Andar Royce said back, “Jon, we have to break through!”

 

Over the bedlam of clanging metal and yelling, Jon shouted to Ser Andar, “Kick the table! On three, kick the table!” He nodded thrice and then they put their armor-banded boots to the barricade. The Frey guardsmen had been ducking behind the table, but not leaning into it. The wood slid from the force of their legs.

 

“Again!” said Royce.

 

This time the third man in Jon and Andar’s front line kicked with them. The table slid. With their next push, the guards and bowmen tripped over each other, and the table legs pinned them in.

 

Defeated, the men tried to yield.

 

_Did you give my brother the chance to yield?_

 

“Death to the Freys!” Jon hollered. “Traitors and kingslayers all!” Bronze Yohn’s men followed the command, and together they dispatched their foes.

 

They cleared every room on the second level and each story after it. Every man who resisted them with steel was killed. They instructed everyone else to go to the audience chamber to await their fates.

 

* * *

 

Lord Yohn, his son Ser Andar, and Ser Jon walked to the top of the blackened ramparts, and they surveyed the Twins. Most of the crenellations had melted down into obscured mounds. Smoke billowed from the identical castle on the opposite shore. Jon could smell it from where he stood. After scorching the barracks on both sides of the river, Viserion had returned to her perch above the bridge.

 

More than one hundred figures huddled on the far side of the stone bridge.

 

“They flee the fire,” stated Andar Royce.

 

“That they do, son. But they’ll not cross with the dragon staring down at them. Will we be safe if _we_ cross, Ser Jon?”

 

“Aye, my lord,” Jon said. “I can yell for the dragon to wait elsewhere if your men don’t want to cross beneath her.”

 

 _At least she’s no longer eating the remains of dead Freys,_ he thought. _To me, dragon. You’ve done well today._

 

For Yohn and Andar’s benefit, Jon whistled to Viserion. Once she landed, he instructed her to watch from the far entrance of the burned, western castle. He said it as one might tell a hound to follow a scent, and Jon could see the bemused look in her eyes. Still, the dragon complied. Jon doubted that anyone in the far castle would dare attempt to escape through the main gate with Viserion staring down.

 

* * *

 

Children, unarmed women, and old men from the torched castle were sent over to the intact keep on the eastern side of the river. Men of fighting age who survived the fires and the assault were kept in the audience chamber of the western keep.

 

The upper floors of the west keep were left scorched, but the audience hall on the ground level was untouched. The same, drab Frey tapestries hung in this hall, but so did others. Jon examined the banners hanging along the walls: the Mormont bear, the Umbers’ unchained giant, the waves and eyes of the Flints of Widow’s Watch and the grey hand of their cadet branch, and the Manderly merman. _The Freys kept these banners as trophies, as if their murders and broken guest-right were sources of pride._ Jon also recognized the dancing maiden of House Piper and the Tully trout on a striped background. He saw a number of others that he couldn’t place, and. . . _the Stark direwolf_.

 

Jon ordered a soldier he did not know to bring down the banners that didn’t belong. Most like, the man had no idea how to take them down, but he only nodded to Jon.

 

Ser Andar then approached. “Ser Jon, the dungeons sit below this keep. Would you wish to follow? I expect that you will recognize more of the Northmen than I, should any be found.”

 

“Aye, ser. And, I saw many a knight and lord of the Riverlands as a squire.”

 

Jon and Andar descended the stairs, each with a torch in hand. The ten guards following after them shared two of their own.

 

The dungeon walkway was cold and dank. Moisture clung to the walls. It smelled like a pond of stale, murky water.

 

A row of doors extended into the darkness. The first one, however, looked different than the rest. It was made of studded oak and reinforced with bands of rusted iron. Jon walked to it and looked through the window barred by latticed steel in the thick, moldy door. The only light came from his party’s torches, so he could not see inside.

 

“The Freys are defeated, the Twins taken,” Jon told any prisoners in the first cell. “Is anyone in there?”

 

The only response was a pained groan.

 

Ser Andar and his guards drew their swords, and Jon unlatched the cell door. He forced it open and heard it squeal on its rusty hinges. Jon lifted his torch through the threshold. He saw no one.

 

Waiting, Jon spotted a pile of rotted blankets in the corner.

 

It moved and Jon jumped back half a step.

 

He heard a hoarse, low voice, “No, can’t be. . . Am I dead?”

 

Jon looked to Ser Andar, who replied, “No, my good man. You seem to be very much alive. We ask again for your name.”

 

The captive held his silence, but sat up. Jon could see the man’s eyes reflecting the light of his fire.

 

“How? How is it. . . Ned?”

 

_Ned._

 

“No,” Jon responded. “I am not him, but I have his look. I am Lord Stark’s son, Ser Jon. I’ve-”

 

“The bastard!” roared the captive. He then clutched the wall and struggled to his feet. The man was a head taller than Jon, but so thin he probably weighted a stone less. His smile shone through the dark.

 

He crashed into Jon’s arms, whose torch fell to the floor and the fire sizzled out in a puddle.

 

Ser Andar pointed his sword; the ragged man ignored him.

 

“You’re _Ned’s_ bastard boy, come to rescue us!”

 

_No. . . This cannot be. . ._

 

In disbelief, Jon asked, “My lord? Lord Jon? Greatjon Umber?”

 

“Aye, boy. I am him.” He laughed wildly and shook Ser Jon by the shoulders. His excitement brought back some of the man’s famous strength.

 

“I’ll need a sword, Snow.” Lord Umber clumsily pulled at the one on Jon’s hip. “Let’s get after them Freys! For Ned and for King Robb!”

 

Seeing the unkempt happiness of Lord Umber, Jon couldn’t have been prouder to be a bastard, so long as it made him Ned Stark’s son. “No need for that, my lord. The castle is ours. Let one of these men help you upstairs and find you some food. You’ll need your strength for other battles ahead of us.”

 

The Greatjon playfully clubbed the side of Jon’s head with the bearclaw he called a hand.

 

While he limped away, Jon could hear him laugh. “Ned’s bastard boy, come to rescue me. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this one! From the comments, I know that some of you guys were waiting for this chapter, and I hope it didn't disappoint. As always, I welcome all reviews and comments!


	41. Brynden - The Water Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right where Chapter 39 left off.

Ser Brynden Tully didn’t break his charge. Frey guards sliced open the throats of the three, unarmed Gulltown Arryns commanding the boat.

 

The men-at-arms were shocked that the Blackfish didn’t yield. He put the point of his dragon-forged longsword in the closest one’s gaping mouth. The force of it pierced through the back of his neck. He dropped to the deck, crumpling over the hostage he’d just slain.

 

The Blackfish engaged the next man, deflecting a cut with his sword. He pushed the guard backwards with his shield.

 

His men thundered up the steps. They shouted as they filled the flanks on either side of Brynden.

 

Suddenly, an arrow skidded off the Blackfish’s shoulder. He smirked. _Plate wasn’t foolish after all. I’ll have to thank Yohn._

 

He pulled back his shield and prepared for a counter from the guard he’d just shoved.

 

_Where?_

 

Brynden looked down to see the guardsman felled by three arrows from his fellows, the crossbowmen on the wall above.

 

His eyes finished adjusting to the sunlight, and Brynden could see the chaotic trap they’d run into. The Water Gate’s guard had allowed them to coast through the entrance and lowered the gate behind them. _Even if the other boats run the make-shift boom downriver, they’ll be vulnerable and of no use if we cannot raise the portcullis._

 

Another of the Freys’ men engaged Brynden. He was smaller than the Blackfish and without a shield. Ser Brynden pulled his sword back and hacked at his enemy. _Again. Again._ The next landed on a wrist, reddening the edge of Brynden’s blade. The guard surrendered ground against his battering. With one more swing, Brynden backed him over an edge, and he fell from view.

 

The oarsmen rowed in an open oarwhal, three feet below the rest of the deck. Brynden saw four rowers yank off the fallen guard’s half-helm; they bludgeoned him with it and with their fists. Brynden looked around and understood why. Many of the oarsmen were feathered with at least one arrow and several of them lay dead or dying. Others swung their oars indiscriminately at any man above them.

 

_The gate._

 

“Get to the gate!” Brynden yelled. He ran to the prow of the boat and jumped onto solid ground. The Vale knights had already moved the fight from the barge to the sandstone steps leading up to the wallwalk of the Water Gate. They held their shields above their heads and collected arrow after arrow. Pikemen stabbed down at them, thwarting their ascent.

 

Brynden looked about for another way. _To get to the next stairway, I’d have to run up to the courtyard, then back around. There’s no other way up._ He glanced from the stairs that lead to the main keep of Riverrun and stood much farther down the landing, then to the array of dead on the ship, and then back to the fighting on the steps to the top of the gate.

 

The image of the battle froze him for a long moment. For all that Brynden Tully had seen Riverrun twice besieged, this was the first time the fighting had occurred inside the castle. The sight of bloody corpses and writhing wounded was out of place in the Blackfish’s boyhood home.

 

Suddenly, he remembered another route to the top of the Water Gate. “ _The minnows_!” he shouted, inside his helm.

 

“The _what?_ ” the knight at his side shot back.

 

Without wasting time with an explanation, Brynden leapt back onto the boat. He stepped over and around the dead men on the deck boards to reach the stern. He sliced the line holding the back of the barge flush against the landing. Brynden put his boot against the stone edge and pushed off as hard as he could. With the bow of the barge still tied on, the back of the flat-bellied boat swung out. He sheathed his sword and used an oar to push off further.

 

The back-left corner of the riverboat bumped the wall on the opposite side.

 

Not certain that he was steep enough below to avoid the Frey bowmen, Ser Brynden slung his shield across his back. The Blackfish slipped off his gauntlets, then bent over to unfasten his armored boots from his greaves and to lift off his helm. He stepped to the edge of the barge and reached out with his bare, right foot. His toes slid into a smooth hole in the mortar between the squared-off stones of the castle wall.

 

_The minnows._

 

Brynden felt the boat begin to drift away and flung himself against the rock. He scrambled for a moment, his hands searching for purchase in the wall. Brynden teetered back, but his left hand caught the corner of a protruding stone.

 

_That was close. I’m like to drown in my armor if I fall._

 

His head uncovered and unprotected, Brynden Tully looked up at the once-familiar climb.

 

On hot summer days, the guards manning the wall would clear away the boats, and the children of Riverrun would clamor up the side of the Water Gate and see who dared to dive off the highest perch. For over a thousand years, the children of House Tully had maneuvered up those handholds in the stone; and for a thousand years, their mothers had told them to cease doing so. Where once there were only the corners of the stone slabs for small hands and feet to grip, the generations had worn smooth footprints between the sandstones. The scattered line of them up the wall vaguely resembled a trail of small fish, giving rise to their name.

 

Fitting only his fingers and toes into the holds, Brynden carefully pulled himself up. Summoning the same daring it had once taken to match a brother five years his elder at climbing, he ascended up to the wallwalk.

 

Ser Brynden clutched the edge of the parapet and peered over. The nearby bowmen hadn’t noticed the Tully knight climbing where there was no stairway. Their attention was directed at the fight on the steps, on the opposite side of the archway. The Blackfish threw his leg over the battlements and crept up while their backs were turned. To the first one, Brynden ran him through with the tip of his blade. The next was leaning too far over the crenels; Brynden jarred him off the ledge with strike to his shoulder. He turned to a third man winding a crossbow.

 

“Wait!” the bowman shouted.

 

The Blackfish swung at the guard’s bare neck. The fine edge of his sterling sword cleaved halfway into it. He needed to kick the man in the chest to free his blade.

 

He looked across the archway to the stairs on the left side of the Water Gate and saw that his men were at a stalemate, held at bay by pikes and arrows. Ser Brynden’s first instinct was to charge at the guardsmen assembled at the top of the stone steps, to do all he could to disrupt their spearwall.

 

_The gate._

 

The Blackfish remembered his duty and ran to the nearby winch-house. It was an enclosed guardpost atop the right side of the gateway. When he ducked inside, Brynden Tully threw off his shield and fell to one knee. He struggled to catch his wind. His legs ached and his chest felt as if it might cave in.

 

_The gate, old man._

 

He reached up and grabbed one of the hand-spokes of the round winch. Brynden hung from the hold and used his weight to turn it. The chain rattled as it began to wind around the spool. He used the resistance of the winch to pull himself to his feet.

 

Next, he stepped over to the door and secured it. _Frey’s guards should have known this castle well enough to understand the importance of the bloody winch-house._ Brynden lumbered back to the crank, which still smelled of rust and the boiled-down pig fat used to keep its joints from binding.

 

Hand over hand, he turned the spool. Without a second man to help him hoist the portcullis, he had to heave for every inch. When finally it rattled against the top of its housing within the Water Gate, Brynden secured the huge spindle with the latch, then drew his dagger and jammed it through the chain-links on the underside of the winch.

 

Picking up his shield and sword, he waited several, invaluable minutes for his strength to return. When Ser Brynden stepped out of the guardhouse, he found that the fight was over and the Water Gate was theirs. Although, the price of taking it was heavy.

 

All of the other men from his boat were dead, down to the last knight and oarsman. With a rough count of the dead guards, each of his knights must have killed one or more Frey men-at-arms, archers, or pikes.

 

 _But, I raised the gate, and the other ships made it to the archway._ The knights from the second ship had finished the brave work of the first.

 

With Brynden’s boat still blocking the waterway, the second could only fit its bow inside. The Valemen from the barges behind it had to climb onto the second boat then onto the first, stepping over dead bodies to reach the landing.

 

_This battle is far from over. They still look to you to lead them._

 

The Blackfish yelled down to the first twenty, unbloodied soldiers, “Protect the gate until all our men are through, then you are to lower it. See that no Freys enter from outside the castle. You ten, watch the wallwalk from that direction and the stairs. The other ten of you: the other direction and the winch.”

 

From atop the gateway, the weathered and weary knight directed the men from Ironoaks and Ninestars into columns.

 

_Where is the rest of the castle’s garrison?_

 

Fearing a trap, but hoping for Frey incompetence, Brynden gave each soldiery its orders before any squad made for Riverrun’s main keep and courtyard. He apportioned thirty men to take the stables, “See that no Frey mounts a horse.”

 

“Seal off the barracks,” Tully commanded to the next twenty soldiers. “See that any off-duty guards do not leave the tower.” He told them where they would be going by gesturing with his outstretched arm and his sword.

 

But, the Blackfish had to retract those orders. _I don’t know if Emmon Frey chose the same tower for his men. Might just as well be the servants’ tower, or the guest housing._

 

The main keep, however, would not be used for anything but for what it was intended.

 

Brynden waited for the rest of his men to disembark. _To start, we had three hundred soldiers in five ships,_ he tallied. _But now we’ve sixty dead from the capturing of this gate._ He split the knights and men-at-arms available to him, “One half will follow me to the keep, the other is to circle around the opposite side. Take cover and await the sound of fighting from my side before forming up to break down the rear doors.”

 

The men hesitated and stared at the Blackfish as he marched down the steps. _They look to you, old man. You proved your metal first on the Stepstones as a foolhardy lad of nine-and-ten, eager for glory against Maelys Blackfyre and the Ninepenny Kings. Just shy of your sixtieth nameday, this is no more than another battle and another chance to earn some scars and the respect of these mere boys._

 

It was not until he was halfway down the stairway that Brynden Tully realized why the Valemen were staring so oddly.

 

“Seven hells!” he shouted, more to himself than anyone else. “You there, fetch me my boots from the stern of the lead boat! My gauntlets and helm, as well. On the hop!”

 

* * *

 

The keep was shut tight, but at least on Brynden’s side, no one within fired any arrows.

 

A voice called down, “I am Lord Emmon Frey! What do you want?”

 

_What do we want? Who is this craven?_

 

Ser Brynden looked up and spotted the man waving out a high window. He lifted the visor of his helm and shouted, “My lord! We cannot hear you! Open your doors and I shall discuss the matter!”

 

“Only _you_ may enter,” Emmon Frey returned. “What assurances do you make that your men will not charge the doors?”

 

The Blackfish yelled back, “On my honor as a knight, we are not here to pillage! I swear it by the old gods and the new!”

 

He turned to the men around him and quietly instructed, “Be ready to charge the doors.”

 

“But, ser.”

 

“Ready yourself,” he growled. “Have I named myself an envoy of peace and waived a rainbow flag? Did I even lie?! The Freys exhausted any goodwill of mine at my nephew’s wedding.”

 

They waited for the doors to open.

 

A squire rode to Ser Brynden, leading a second horse. “Ser, we took the stables. Only some grooms and stableboys were there. They yielded and are now locked in a loft.”

 

 “No one else?” he asked. “Anywhere?”

 

“No, Ser Brynden. Not that I’s seen.”

 

_Did that fool pull all his men into the keep at the first sign of battle?_

 

He climbed up on the second horse and looked back at the keep. “It seems someone thought better of welcoming me inside.”

 

Brynden turned to the men around him. “Back away from the keep and take cover from arrow fire,” he commanded. “If they open the doors, all men are hereby ordered to attack. If they remain barred, do not move until I return.”

 

The Blackfish rode to the stables and ordered some of the men to follow him to the armory. It was empty of any guards. Swords, helms, and other bits of steel and wood lay hastily strewn about on the floor. Ser Brynden stepped over a shield and found the kettle-ram leaning against a dusty corner. The waves of rust-stain colored the black battering ram.

 

_Has this kludge of cast iron moved in my lifetime?_

 

He told his men to drag it back to the main keep.

 

Once he rejoined his soldiers waiting outside the keep, one of them explained, “They have yet to move, or to do anything at all.”

 

The Blackfish ordered six men on the ram and two rows of eight to guard them. “Raise your shields over your heads and interlock them!”

 

The first crash of the ram woke the castle. Arrows began to fall. The shields held and the barred doors rocked looser with every contact.

 

Between two of the blows, Brynden heard a shrill voice echo down, “. . . protect me! Do your duty!”

 

One of the soldiers at the doors called to the Blackfish, “Nearly breached!”

 

From his safe vantage point, Ser Brynden Tully saw the doors smash open in a flurry of wood chips and iron studs. Inside, a line of swords and spears looked to be trembling.

 

The six flung the ram at the guardsmen in the same motion they’d used to batter their way in. Their sixteen shield-bearers stepped together and, in unison, pushed through.

 

_Smoother than any levy has a right to be on its first day in this buggering war._

 

The Blackfish raised his sword and kicked his heels into his mount’s sides. He yelled a wordless shout and the men followed his charge. His horse trampled a path through the melee in Riverrun’s main feasting hall. Usually bright, the wide room was dim and soon smelled of sweat, rather than bread and brazed trout.

 

The Frey guards who survived both the men’s shield charge and then the wave of steel trailing Brynden, had little interest in fighting to the last. One man, backed against tan colored stone, dropped his blade and pleaded for mercy. Others soon followed his example. Three yielded too slowly and found swords in their bellies. The men-at-arms who’d killed them looked up at Brynden. _You won’t hear me chastise you for a dead Frey._

 

Brynden swung off his horse, landing harshly on a tender ankle. He picked out one of the surrendered guards and peered into the man’s dung-brown eyes. “You! Where are Emmon and the rest of the Freys?”

 

“Upstairs, m’lord.”

 

“Show me.”

 

The Blackfish aligned his men into rows, and the rows into a column. He knew that fighting their way up flights of stairs was a dangerous gambit.

 

Moments after ordering their attack, instead of the sound of swords clashing, he heard the first of his soldiers call out, “Ser Brynden! They’ve done it!”

 

He sprinted through his lines and up to the second story of the keep. Splayed out on the floor, forty Frey guards had been trampled. Most looked likely to heal from their wounds and bruises.

 

“What happened?” Brynden asked.

 

One of the Vale knights said, “It was her! She’s the one who did it!” A familiar, plump woman stepped out from the group of soldiers.

 

The Blackfish’s mouth dropped open. “Mylessa?”

 

“Yes, Ser Brynden.”

 

He didn’t understand. “How did you fell these forty men?”

 

She chuckled at him and held up her hands. “These seamstress’s fingers, ser. Deft from half a lifetime of sewing and weaving.”

 

One of the men-at-arms explained, “She threw two lines out the windows for us stationed at the rear of the keep. One of rope and the other of knotted bed sheets. We climbed into the sewing room on the third floor. Then, we charged down and took these guards unawares, ser.”

 

* * *

 

Knowing a further stand was useless, Emmon Frey allowed Ser Brynden into the room. The bent-back weasel sat beside Hoster’s desk in Hoster’s solar. His thin lips were bloody at first glance. _No, only sour leaf. He’s chewing on a bundle that could choke a cow._ His wife, fleshy and stern-faced, glared at Brynden. She edged her seat in front of her husband’s.

 

“Genna Lannister and your _lady husband_ ,” the Blackfish said, by way of greeting. “How fares my brother’s castle?”

 

“Who do you think you are to come here?! I am Lord Emmon Frey! _Lord_ of Riverrun! You are a traitor to the realm. You are-”

 

Genna put her hand to his chest and pushed him back in his chair. She said, “Ser, I now find that my _lord husband_ did not, as it happens, retain enough men in _his_ castle. What terms do you offer?”

 

“You both will be confined,” he said and a smirk crossed his face. “Separately or together, whichever should you choose. You’ll be held in rooms, not dungeon cells.” His serious expression returned. “I require you and what’s left of your men to yield with no further combat. When the time comes, you will be ransomed or executed, depending upon how your Houses react.”

 

Frey still fumed, but the Lannister woman surrendered the castle on his behalf. The wry look on her face told the Blackfish that she, at a minimum, considered the offer of residing in quarters of her own. _What woman would want a Frey in her chambers, let alone between her thighs?_ Brynden’s knights lead the pair to their new bedroom, at the top level of the servants’ tower.

 

* * *

 

Later, he found Maester Vyman in his chambers below the rookery. _Here is one place in the castle unchanged by war and Freys._

 

“Maester, I had thought we might send forth several greetings.”

 

Vyman smiled, his teeth were brown and his expression warm. “The disinherited Lord Emmon had thought to do the same. . . some hours ago.”

 

“Might you have refused a lord’s command?”

 

“As if I would ever do such a thing, Brynden Tully!” answered the maester, with a snort. “And yet, gods be good, I _do_ find myself moving slower than I once did. I fear I have yet to climb to the Raven’s Nest. Would the new lord wish to amend my commanded duty?”

 

“ _Castellan_ ,” Brynden corrected. “I only hold it in trust for my lord nephew.”

 

To make room on the maester’s writing table, the Blackfish lifted a stack of books and scrolls to set them aside. Annoyed, Vyman put his grey-skinned hand on top and brusquely instructed the Blackfish where he wanted them set. The maester was prickly about anyone moving his documents, and provoking a reaction was half the reason why Brynden picked them up.

 

With the corner of the desk uncluttered, they set about writing letters. Brynden dictated, and Vyman put ink to parchment. The first was to the Gates of the Moon, intended for Lady Waynwood and Sansa Stark, though not bearing their names. It told them of the results of the day in an unflowery note.

 

“We’ll need write to Riverrun’s bannermen,” Tully said. “Have you any knowledge of who will swear their loyalty?”

 

“Lord Blackwood kept faith longer than anyone,” the maester replied, and Brynden nodded to show he already knew it. “But, the Lannisters hold one of his sons as a hostage. They took hostages from most of the Riverlords, ser. If I might offer you council, I believe it wise to delay any ravens to them. Word of your return and your victory will spread quickly, regardless. It would not do to put the sons and daughters of Lord Edmure’s bannermen in peril. If the lords receive no ravens from us, the Lannisters will have no just-cause to punish the hostages.”

 

“When has _just-cause_ been necessary for Lannister reprisal?”

 

Maester Vyman offered no direct answer. Instead, he said, “The Lannisters and the Freys are unlikely to trust the vassals traditionally sworn to your House, if they opt to mount an attack. I have not forgotten that Lords Piper, Lychester, Roote, Smallwood, and both Lords Vance laid siege when last you held the castle. Nevertheless, Emmon Frey and Lady Lannister only grew increasingly distrustful in the months since, even sending out thrice daily patrols. That distrust is most like shared by the others of their families.”

 

Brynden said in reply, “Telling me that the kin of Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister will not trust the Riverlords is not the same as saying that those Riverlords are, at present, trustworthy.”

 

Though he knew that they’d had little choice in the incursion against Riverrun, the siege that ended three moon turns ago still felt like a betrayal to Ser Brynden. “So you think that my nephew’s bannermen might be unwilling to send aid to us,” he posed, “but also unlikely to march against their true liege lord’s stronghold a second time.”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

They held off scribing any other notes.

 

The Blackfish walked to the courtyard in front of the main hall of Riverrun. He wished to see that his orders for the defense of the castle and for the prisoners were being followed.

 

Signs of the approaching winter were evident. Though no snow lay on the yard that day, the ground was cold and hard under his feet. The green of summer was nearly faded and the brown of autumn had descended.

 

_Thank the gods that arrogant Frey did not squander my provisions._

 

The Blackfish watched as some of his men, with the broken wheel of House Waynwood on their surcoats, led the bridge-and-towers soldiers from the downriver guardhouse across the yard.

 

_More mouths to feed. Would that I could throw them down the river._

 

Brynden Tully then recalled something Ser Jon had mentioned on the road from Riverrun to Blackwood Vale. The lad’s Stark uncle had lamented the failure of all the so-called kings to send their prisoners to the Night’s Watch.

 

 _The Gulltown barges might do for the lowborn soldiers. If not for the need I may have of him in the exchanging of hostages,_ Brynden thought, _red-lipped Emmon might have found himself packing his smallclothes for the Wall. . . If not for my honor, he might already be short a head._

 

Brynden went to the armory and set the smith to crafting chains and shackles.

 

Feeling the castle secure and the men set to task, the Blackfish allowed himself to retire to his old quarters. The room was poorly arranged and sun still streaked in the window. But, when he undressed and crawled beneath the sheets, Brynden Tully felt eager for sleep.

 

_I restored your son’s castle, my lord. I brought us one step closer to justice from House Frey, a step closer to justice for your girl, your little Cat. Mayhaps now, brother, I’ve earned your respect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who continues to read this fic and to everyone who comments!


	42. Osha - A Sanctum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my personal favorite of the entire story.

Life on the island was not so different from the life Osha knew before she ever heard of Mance Rayder. Skagos was warmer than her North. For most of her life, the _North_ had the clearest of regional divides. Two years, or near enough to make no matter, had passed since Stiv led her and the others in their little skin boats around the Wall and across the Bay of Ice.

 

The kneelers thought all wildlings were the same. At least _Crows_ could tell Nightrunners from Hornfoots. That the _southerners_ could know so little of the Free Folk surprised Osha; that they knew nothing of the ice-blue eyes than shined in the dark, terrified her.

 

_But I’m free of them now. How could they reach these shores?_

 

A score or more clans lived on Skagos, but only two mattered: the Stane and the Crowl. For thousands of years, they warred over whose chief would control the ancient motte, Kingshouse, and be called “Magnar of Skagos.”

 

The Crowl ruled more often than not, according to their chieftain.

 

One hundred and fourteen years ago, a Magnar born of Clan Crowl, in a fit of madness, sent a messenger to Winterfell to present a severed fist, an ancient sign of war. Artos Stark had become Lord of Winterfell only two years prior, when his brother, Lord Willam, died at the hands of Raymun Redbeard during the Battle of Long Lake. The Stark men crossed the Bay of Seals easily enough. Lord Artos had no patience for the Magnar’s insolence and found him on the battle field. When the Magnar’s piked axe cut through Artos’s collar, breast, and ribs, he thought the battle was won. He shouted his victory in the Old Tongue. When finally he came to his senses and looked around, half his men lay dead on the ground and the other half were encircled. The Magnar was dragged to Winterfell to bend the knee to the third and youngest Stark brother, Beron, who was later succeeded by Artos’s son, Edwyle. Lord Edwyle Stark spent a lifetime watching for the first sign of another Crowl rebellion. But ever since that one Crowl chieftain bent his knee, the Stane ruled Kingshouse and held the title of _Magnar_.

 

Osha lived with the Crowl. They called their village, “Deepdown,” and it was far grander than those Osha had seen along Milkwater, or anywhere else north of the Wall. The city laid in the bowl of a pit crater encircled by a steep hill. They carved their homes into the inner slope. Instead of dirt roads between houses, like in White Tree or Hardhome, chiseled steps ran between the homes, which themselves looked arranged like steps. The outer hills and the ledge sheltered the city from the stormwinds off the sea. Warmth permeated through the rock and into the houses, as well as the ground between them.

 

Levels of outward facing spearholds staked around the edge helped to ward off bears and the Stane. Narrow pathways were worn at the crest, forming recessed entrances spaced between the spears. Above each entrance, the flag of the Crowl flew, jagged red beneath black, representing fire beneath rock.

 

The Crowl were not Free Folk, in truth, but if Osha’s people ever built a mighty castle of their own, she imagined that it would look much like Deepdown.

 

Rather than praying to the old gods in front of a heart tree, the Crowl chanted their words in a circle around their black-stone alter, which arched over the bottomless hole in the center of their village. At sunset every day, they knelt around the pit, which was the source of the heat that sustained them. On holy days, they added a sacrifice to their prayers. A good offering returned a cloud of smoke, a bad one yielded only thin steam, or worse, no response.

 

Despite the warmth and shelter, the city could produce no crops or fodder for their sheep. The clan had to rely on the surrounding valleys for hunting, grazing, and gardening. Leaving the protection of the city meant risking being attacked or stolen by the Stane.

 

The people of Clan Stane were once costal dwellers, pushed to the outskirts of the island to stay clear of Crowl rule. For thousands of years, they were ridiculed by the Crowl, who called their rival’s city, “Driftwood Hall.” Storms from the Shivering Sea crashed upon the Stane, destroying their homes and even dragging their people out to drown. The Magnars from Clan Crowl did little to help or hurt the people in Driftwood Hall. But ever since the invasion of Lord Artos Stark, the Stane exacted their revenge, deserved or not.

 

“Your nephew was looking for you earlier,” said an axewife. “Now, he’s searching out trouble.”

 

Osha walked off in the direction the woman pointed. She found the boy in an alcove behind some clansman’s cave-house with two older boys.

 

“That is not some play-thing!” she shouted in the Old Tongue.

 

The older boys pushed the dagger into the younger’s hand and tried to run off. Osha was quick enough to clout one on the back of his head.

 

“Rickwyle,” she said, pulling him by the hand. “Steel knives, wood spears, rock-axes: these are what a boy your age is allowed to play with. Not this!”

 

She tried to take the shimmering, black blade by the handle, but even grazing against the freshly sharpened edge was enough to draw blood.

 

“ _Dragonglass_ is not for playing. And if you think I’m mad, you wait until I tell your sister.”

 

“No!” he pleaded, suddenly plaintive. “The other boys were just showing me. I won’t, I promise.”

 

Satisfied that she had sufficiently cowed the five year old child, Osha led Rickon back to the home they shared.

 

She suspected that a distinctly Stark sounding name would be trouble with the Skagosi, even before she heard the story of the downfall of the clan. _Rickwyle_ resembled his real name well enough that the boy wouldn’t have difficulty remembering it. And, just like the name of his great-grandfather, “ _Rickwyle_ ” sounded like it might be from either the Free Folk or the Northern Kneelers.

 

The doorway into their home was cleanly filed down into an arch and could be covered by a coarse sheet of canvas, though Osha saw from a distance that it was tied back. The entrance and the beginnings of the cave-home jutted out from the slope of the pit crater by five feet. The squared off walls and roof framed the entryway. 

 

In some ways, her new home of black rock was arranged in the opposite fashion of her last new home, which was made of soot-grey rock. Crates and barrels were not set on the floor, but rested on shelves cut into the stone. Beds were chiseled depressions in the floor, rather than cots raised off of it. In Winterfell, the farther down into the kitchen’s cellar, the colder and better kept the food was. In Deepdown, food warmed and spoiled if left too close to the ground and was often stored on the roof racks of homes.

 

Shaggydog’s hunt must have been successful, because Osha could smell the roasting meat well before she entered. Their house was one room, more long than wide, chiseled into the rock. Since whoever build it carved the chimney hole close to the doorway, they tended to call that the “kitchen” and the rest of the house, the “bedroom”.

 

Rickon looked up at Osha as one last check that she wasn’t going to mention the dagger, then ran inside.

 

“Lya,” the boy cheered. “Is it ready?”

 

She laughed. “I suppose you know the answer to that, seeing as Shaggy thought the wild mutton finished quite some time ago.”

 

She ruffled Rickon’s hair and gave Osha’s hand a squeeze. She felt comfort in making such gestures, so Osha never objected. She’d gone through enough loses in her young life and deserved whatever contentment she could find. Though Osha would never voice such thoughts, she liked the kindnesses as well. They reminded her of her mother.

 

* * *

 

When Osha and Rickon left the old maester by the weirwood, the green-eyed Reed boy told her to head to the Wolfswood, where they would catch a “white-doe”. She thought that meant Shaggydog would find ample food for their trek. When Rickon saw the flecked-grey walls, he recognized the holdfast in an instant. Osha had to cover his mouth to keep him from shouting for his brother. Once he calmed down and remembered that Jon had died at sea, she got him to carve his name into a handle of tree branch. Osha waited for nightfall and snuck over the wall. Once close enough, she tossed the stick through the open window that Rickon thought was the lord’s bedroom.

 

Lady Lydrea found her way out of the holdfast while the rest of the household slept. She wanted to bring Rickon inside her keep, but Osha refused. _Though I had little say about staying in Winterfell, that castle still kept me behind stone walls higher than I knew men could build._ Thoughts of white walkers, though, still kept her up at night, even in the Stark stronghold. Osha was unwilling to stay behind walls she could easily scale herself, nor would she leave Rickon unprotected either. Huddled in this secret meeting, though, she held her tongue about the Others.

 

_Kneelers know nothing of the real threat._

 

Instead, she told the girl, “The Ironborn didn’t burn Winterfell. Men of _your North_ did. They betrayed the Starks and cannot be trusted.”

 

_But even them that killed the old maester. . . was just men._

 

The girl told them to wait and that she’d be right back.

 

When Lydrea returned, Osha expected the extra cloaks and the sack of breads, and she was glad to see the horse. But, she hadn’t anticipated a babe in swaddling furs. Osha attributed the decision to bring the nine month old girl as a new mother’s attachment, or madness. Still, she did not argue as she’d grown up seeing mothers carrying babes through far heavier snows.

 

 Most of the journey consisted of Osha trudging along in the light snow drifts and cold mud, while Lydrea, Rickon, and the babe rode. The women switched off periodically and kept a fast pace, considering their party.

 

Rickon took an instant liking to his cousin. Holding her seemed to calm his chaotic temper. One morning, Osha awoke to Lydrea poking at her, wearing a heartbreaking smile that could only be found on a mother’s face. Silently, they watched as little Halya held onto Shaggydog’s fur on her wobbly legs. She then let go and stumbled the first few steps of her young life laughingly into the arms of her kneeling cousin.

 

Along the way, Osha skinned each of the wolf’s kills. She piled the fresh hides on the horse’s back and stretched them whenever they stopped. After a moon turn and a half, they reached the bay. Osha used bowed branches, deer-gut, and a bone needle to fashion the skins into two boats and paddles. How Lydrea thought they would ferry a horse across the salt-water strait, Osha couldn’t guess. She reluctantly told her companion that she would have to let go of another thing that she cared about. So, they unavoidably left the horse to fend for itself. Clinging to whatever hope she could, Lydrea insisted that horses were skilled at finding their way home over large distances, her Drifts especially. With Lydrea and Shaggydog in one canoe and Osha and the children in the other, they paddled to Skagos.

 

The Crowl Clan was the first they came upon. Hearing Osha speak the Old Tongue was the currency of their acceptance. She told them that her brother had stolen Lydrea and fathered the babe. Rickwyle was supposed to be Lydrea’s little brother, whom they’d both taken in. Ever mindful, Osha told everyone at that first, evenfall prayer-circle that Lydrea was not for stealing and promised that Shaggydog would bite off the man-stones of anyone who tried.

 

* * *

 

At first, Lydrea reassured Rickon that _someday_ the war would be over and _someday_ he would be able to go home. As children his age tended to do, he seemed to forget about Winterfell a little more with each passing day. Osha couldn’t blame him. In a few years, he would have only grim memories of that place, if he remembered much at all.

 

Lydrea talked about her family, despite the tears that sometimes accompanied the stories. Osha knew  she’d lost her parents when she was still very young. Her uncle and her aunt took her in, and by all accounts she grew to love them deeply. Her uncle, Halys Hornwood, and cousin, Daryn, both died in battle. Her aunt, Donella, was raped by Ramsey Snow in front of a dozen of his men. He called it a “wedding” and left her to starve in a tower. And Lydrea’s young husband, Ser Jon, died at sea before she even knew she was carrying Halya. Her eagerness to reach out for one last family connection in Rickon didn’t surprise Osha.

 

Lydrea did not possess the iced-over heart of a spearwife. She was vulnerable to loss and felt it keenly. The strength in her was evident in how she did not shy from her pain, telling Rickon stories of those she’d lost, whereas others might try to forget.

 

Days progressed, as they often did, in the rhythm of clan life. Rickon played at wrestle-games with the other boys, raced Shaggydog, and took lessons from Lydrea in the afternoons. Little Halya was never more content than when Rickon played with her and loved to climb over Shaggydog, when the direwolf would allow it. Osha was part of the hunting and foraging parties that combed over the forests beyond the city ledge and down the black-rock mountain on which it sat.

 

Lydrea tended to this new family they’d woven together. In the early evenings, she practiced loosing arrows at the column of driftwood targets against a section of the crater. Osha would have tried to help her learn, but she guessed that Lydrea was really just using the archer’s regimen as a way to secure herself some time alone.

 

* * *

 

After she’d seen that Halya, Rickon, Osha, and even Shaggydog had eaten their fill of that supper’s wild mutton, Lydrea left for her nightly practice. Osha leaned against the entryway thinking that life could be far worse for the girl, or far better. She stayed there reflecting on their situation for some number of minutes after Lydrea had gone.

 

Suddenly, Halya ran by, stumbling and churning her little legs as fast as she could. Once outside, she ran in circles cheering some nonsense song. She was waving something above her head. _Small clothes. Lydrea’s small clothes._

 

Rickon was on the ground laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

 

In her little world, few things took precedence over the chance to make her cousin laugh. The girl didn’t slow until Rickon’s laughter died out. Osha couldn’t bring herself to chastise Halya, because as soon as she came inside, she returned the clothing to her mother’s shelf. The girl even made a clumsy attempt at folding. She sat back down, leaning against Rickon, and looked up sweetly at Osha. That she had done anything wrong, completely eluded the young girl, who’d not even seen her second name day.

 

The pair of them sitting together looked so very different, while also being well suited for each other. He looked like his eldest brother with his blue eyes and dark red hair, the tangles of which resembled a bird’s nest. The girl had her mother’s light brown hair and grey eyes that were supposed to look like her father’s. Her straight hair was tidy compared to her cousin’s. She often insisted that someone help her tie it back, because she hated when it swept in her face.

 

Their behavior exhibited a similar dynamic, like a reflection in a pond that waved its right hand whenever someone waved her left. Halya could be left to play and would be content humming and acting out some story or another of her own creation. She was cheerful and startlingly well mannered, until Rickon returned home from his daily adventures in the village. Halya adored her older cousin. She would get into all manner of mischief to impress him. He, meanwhile, would watch and laugh and cheer her on, all the while being more still and civilized than at any other time. When left to his own devices, the wild Rickon liked to find his way into whatever danger he could.

 

_They are both the perfect influences on each other. She is able to calm him, one way or another. And, his encouragement makes her bold._

 

* * *

 

It was mid-day at the beginning of her sixth month on the island, when Osha heard the strange shouting. A pack of foragers were dragging a bloody man before the chief. One of them also held a bound-up boy over his shoulder.

 

He was a lean man with brown hair and brown eyes. _A kneeler._ His beard was streaked with grey. He smelled like the sea. The chief folded his arms and stared down at him, neither understanding nor listening to him plead in the Common Tongue of south of the Wall.

 

Osha was already amidst the commotion to offer her help translating when the captive began to shout.

 

“Rickon Stark! Rickon Stark!”

 

That, the chief understood.

 

Osha slapped the kneeler across the face.

 

“Shut it!” she yelled at him. Looking back to the chief, she asked him what he wished to say.

 

Osha questioned the washed-ashore man for his name, from where he hailed, and his business on Skagos.

 

“Davos Seaworth,” he rasped. “Sent here from White Harbor, by Lord Manderly. The boy accompanying me followed Rickon Stark, a wildling, and a mother with her babe. He watched them cast off to here.” His ragged breathing slowed as he regained his wind.

 

Osha told the chief that he was searching for Lord Rickon Stark, a broad shouldered man with dark brown hair and grey eyes.

 

“You will keep your mouth shut or I’ll slit you from neck to cock,” she warned, glaring at him.

 

“My chief,” Osha relayed in the Old Tongue. “I threatened him, but I do not think he will say more.”

 

The chieftain wanted Seaworth taken away, and the hunters shoved him and the boy into a cell. The Crowl kept their most treacherous prisoners in a tunnel chamber. It was too short for a man to stand upright and just wider than Seaworth’s shoulders. The cell was chiseled into a vein of obsidian and secured by wooden bars at its entrance. Osha did not know if the tunnel continued on or if it went only a few paces deep. For his sake, she thought it lucky that the cell was vacant.

 

The food they fed him was half-rancid and the water murky.

 

Three nights into his captivity, Osha and Lydrea snuck into his cell.

 

“Wha?” he mumbled at them.

 

Osha gripped his breeches and yanked them to his ankles. She grinned wondering if the man would be afraid or encouraged by that.

 

“Don’t you go thinking nothing about this. Two women caught taking our fun with a prisoner means mocks and japes. Talking to you like we will, means our heads.”

 

“Why did you call out for Rickon Stark,” whispered Lydrea. “And what did you mean about Lord Manderly?”

 

Seaworth shook off the bleariness on his weathered face.

 

“I serve King Stannis. He sent me from the Wall to Lord Manderly. Manderly sent me to find the boy and his wolf. I must return Rickon Stark to White Harbor.”

 

“And w’ats a man like you care about the Starks or them Manderlys?”

 

The salty man turned to Lydrea to give his answer to Osha’s question. “Manderly’s support for Bolton and the Freys is a feign, a trick. He wants only revenge and to restore the Starks. White Harbor will support Stannis’s claim. . . if I find young Stark _and_ his wolf.”

 

“And who sits on the Iron Throne now?”

 

“Tommen Baratheon. No, Tommen _Waters_ ,” he corrected.

 

“And the warring continues?”

 

“Yes, my lady.”

 

Lydrea looked startled by the kneeler’s address. “You will not be leaving with him, _my lord_. For he is not on Skagos. But, I know where he is and the boy is safe.”

 

Davos Seaworth did not look like a man whose determination wavered easily.

 

“I will write a letter to Lord Manderly,” she told him. “Deliver it to him, and he will trust that young Stark is alive and safe.”

 

He still was not satisfied.

 

“Or,” Lydrea suggested. “We could just put a knife through your heart.”

 

Osha had forgotten about Davos Seaworth’s boy, who didn’t say a word. He pulled at the man’s arm, and then nodded vigorously once he had Seaworth’s attention.

 

* * *

 

The following night, Osha brought Lydrea’s letter to Davos. She also wedged two, stone hand-axes through the bars. “The chief must think you escaped on your own.”

 

She told him to steal a skin-boat from a roof during his flight.

 

“Won’t need it. My skiff is beached on the shore.”

 

Osha laughed to herself. “You do not know Skagos, Davos Seaworth. Most like, Stane men stole it before our hunters finished dragging you to Deepdown. No matter how you hid it, bring another boat. And. . . give _this_ to your harbor-lord.”

 

She handed him Rickon’s dragonglass dagger wrapped in cloth. “Tell him the cold winds are nearly here. If the harbor-lord has half a brain in his skull, he’ll understand.”

 

Seaworth and his silent boy took two nights to break through the bars. Some of the clan considered Davos a valuable capture and had expected that someone from Winterfell would come to offer a ransom. The chief seemed relieved by the escape. Osha couldn’t fault him for not wanting to chance a quarrel with whoever held Winterfell.

 

_Good fortune, Davos Seaworth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for what feels like forever to get to this chapter. I wrote it a long while ago and was dying just waiting on finishing the other chapters that come before it. 
> 
> I'm really curious to hear what you think of this one! So please, please leave me your thoughts in the comments.


	43. The Shavepate - Battle of Meereen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up only days after where Barristan Selmy's last chapter in ADWD left off.

Behind his mask and atop the walls of Meereen, Skahaz mo Kandaq stared through his Myrish far-eye at the battlefield below. Under the blazing Essos sun, he watched the queen’s old knight lead a charge of sellswords, freedmen, pit fighters, and Dothraki savages against the slave armies of Yunkai.

 

_At least Ser Grandmother can fight, even if that’s all he is good for._

 

The warrior from the Sunset Kingdoms had proven himself capable when he single-handedly killed Khrazz, the pit fighter-turned-bodyguard, and captured King Hizdahr zo Loraq.

 

Even after, though, Barristan had refused to kill the queen’s consort. _How can any man be so blind as that? The Dragon Queen is younger even than my daughters. She is just a little girl. Who could blame her for acting like one? Barristan Whitebeard has no excuse. He is a fighter who has seen many battles and slain countless foes. How has any such as him lived so many seasons and not learned the first thing on the nature of men?_

 

Silently, the Shavepate regarded all the choices and indecisions of his foreign ruler. Daenerys Mother of Dragons refused to heed his warnings about the ruling houses of Meereen, the Great Masters. _Better to cut an enemy down, than to let him stab your heart in the night._ The Shavepate knew well enough that the Sons of the Harpy, or some other faction just like it, was inevitable.

 

When finally the queen took hostages from the families that Skahaz mo Kandaq was certain were empowering the Sons, she was adamant about not killing them.

 

_They are hostages!_

 

He clenched his knuckles at the memory of it.

 

_She and her grey knight looked at me as if I was some cursed demon. I did not tell her to kill first. The Yunkai’i killed Groleo. The Harpies kill my Brazen Beasts and shavepates and freedmen every night! And yet, she valued the lives of her hostages more than my men. If we must trade a life for a life, why wouldn’t I choose to sap the lifesblood of my enemy?_

 

House Kandaq was from the noble blood of Old Ghis, but it was not so old as others. The pyramid of Skahaz and his forbearers was strong, but not like those of Houses Loraq, Merreq, or Galare. For generations, the Kandaq had to be watchful of the Great Masters. The House was prominent enough for the rulers of Meereen to take note of its actions, but not so powerful as to skirt repercussions. House Kandaq had kept its guard up since its founding. They were shaped and hardened by that and by the slights and treachery of the greater Houses.

 

Skahaz took off his mask for a moment. He wiped his brow before donning it again. In truth, he had no real need of it. His men alone guarded the walls of the city, and they all knew he wore a hawk mask on that day.

 

In the encampment below, Whitebeard looked to be charging a briar of a thousand spears. But just before impaling himself on a dozen of their points, he turned his horse. With one of his apprentice warriors flying the queen’s flag at his side, Barristan rode down a regiment of pink bird-men. The Shavepate liked that point of attack. _For putting his slaves on stilts and dressing them in feathers, that man, whoever he is, deserves to lose his fighters._

 

Next, Barristan wheeled his mount around to a battalion of slave soldiers who were chained together. Most tried to flee at the sight of the cavalry.

 

 _What fools these Yunkai’i masters are_.

 

Even the sections that held their ground were encumbered and tripped by those who didn’t. _Hundreds of their slave-fighters dead, trampled under hoof, and my side might not have lost one._ Pit fighters, Mother’s Men, and Stalwart Shields ran behind Barristan’s cavalry and finished off any still alive. And in their bloodlust, the pit fighters gutted as many corpses as they did still breathing enemies.

 

A contingent of Yunkai’s crossbowmen got off a volley, taking down a fair sum of the old man’s warriors, before they too were routed.

 

The briar of spearmen, which was a regiment of city slaves rather than the personal army of any one Yunkai’i slaver, looked formidable with their long pikes and throwing spears. Still, it was a simple thing to ride and run wide around them, and none of the city slaves broke formation to give chase.

 

Barristan Whitebeard’s next target was the line of men from the small isle of New Ghis. They were armed and armored like the Unsullied, but one need only look at how they held their spears or how their knees quaked to know that these were no true warriors. New Ghis’s legion was assembled from conscripts of free citizens who served for, at most, three years. Many were from rich, old families and had never faced combat before.

 

The old knight’s squad of horse did not need cause much bloodshed before the cowards of New Ghis broke rank. Barristan and his cavalry charged through the lines, then turned around for a second pass. This tactic led the panicked soldiers to flee back in the opposite direction.

 

_He’s herding them, like so much cattle, back to the chaotic horde of sellswords, pit fighters, and companies of freedmen._

 

With their path now clear, Barristan’s torch bearers lit the pavilions and trebuchets, spreading fire as they rode.

 

_Where are their sellswords? The Windblown, the Second Sons, and the other companies- did they flee?_

 

The sound of screams found Skahaz on the battlements. He turned around to see a flood of men in green, inside the city. Swords, iron clubs, and _arakhs_ slashed through everyone in their path. _Hundreds of them. But who. . . the Harpy!_

 

“Relay my call,” he shouted to the masked men on his wall. “Grey Worm must come back inside the gate!”

 

The Shavepate heard his orders echoed down the line.

 

The Unsullied were stationed in front of the city. They were to guard against a counter attack or cover a retreat if Barristan’s charge went poorly. The Queen’s Hand had planned “charge” or “retreat” signals for his vanguard to alert the waiting Unsullied, but Skahaz had no way to tell the Barristan Whitebeard to return to the city.

 

Freedmen in the streets, and their wives and children, did their best to fight back. Some had shovels or sticks, but most met their ends empty-handed.

 

_She should have killed every last one of them! Taken her Unsullied from pyramid to pyramid until this threat was dead. No one trusts a Loraq and does not suffer for it._

 

“Relay my call! Fire your arrows!”

 

The Shavepate knew that his men would kill as many innocents as enemies if they let fly their arrows into the crowded streets. But, the freedmen and loyal Meereenese were as good as dead either way. _Better to kill both enemy and friend, than to leave the Harpies free to murder as they please._

 

The gates remained open, but he didn’t see any Unsullied returning. The Shavepate sprinted for a better look. He ducked behind his bowmen as he passed them.

 

Finally, the foot of the main gate came into view. The Sons of the Harpy had overturned litters and thrown crates and merchant stalls and anything else they could find into the entrance. His Brazen Beasts continued to rain down their arrows, but more of the cursed Harpies just kept coming. _Thousands of them._

 

The Shavepate’s men couldn’t hope to overrun the fighters below. He commanded them to crowd above the stone stairs and to defend them at all costs. The order was repeated down the line and around the walls of the city.

 

The Sons of the Harpy weren’t interested in storming the Brazen Beasts. They looked content to run into and beyond arrow range, continuing to add to the pile of wood and iron shielding them from the Unsullied. _And to slaughter their way through the heart of Meereen._

 

The pyramids held. The butchers were not well enough armed to break into them. But, every other home and shop could not withstand them. _For a bloody rampage,_ the Shavepate thought, _they look practiced and efficient._ While most of the men killed every former slave and follower of the Dragon Queen they found, others dragged the corpses into a rapidly building pile.

 

One of his Brazen Beasts came running up to the Shavepate. “Master! Something happens in the bay. Volantis attacks the Yunkai’i!”

 

* * *

 

Once at the gates facing the harbor, Skahaz saw a fleet unlike any he’d ever seen before. Volantis had assembled a queer mix of many different ships, some clearly better suited for fishing than battle at sea. However, it was evidently part of some deception, because the fishing boats and trade ships took the unwary blockade by surprise.

 

Long, narrow ships, which comprised about half of the bizarre fleet, turned from the other ships and rowed right up onto the banks of the sea. Men sprang out from the boats by the thousand and rushed the lines of sellswords guarding the flank of the Yunkai’i siege lines.

 

Skahaz turned to one of his bowmen and asked, “How many Volantines, by your count?”

 

The youth in the basilisk mask tallied the soldiers storming the shores by each half-century, “Three, six, nine. . . That means forty-five hundred men or more, Master Skahaz. And, as many attack the ships in the bay!”

 

The Shavepate grunted his agreement.

 

Another masked bowman shouted, “The sellswords begin to flee! And the Windblown. . .”

 

“The Windblown are turning on the other companies!” hollered the younger Beast. “They turn their banners mid-battle, master!”

 

 _Barristan’s plan worked,_ drew Skahaz from this turn of course. _The dead frog-prince of Dorne’s friends, that big and bald Greenguts and the pretty knight, they must have succeeded in pleading Selmy’s offer to the Tattered Prince. Or else that sad-eyed Pentoshi commander in rags saw the battle swaying against the side of Yunkai, and he sought to take up the cause of the victors._

 

The Windblown were a mix of cavalry and infantry, numbering about two thousand in total. They first struck the Company of the Cat. Though the Bloodbeard’s Company outnumbered the Tattered Prince’s Windblown by half, the former were unprepared for their allies’ about-face. Engaged at their van with Volantis, the Company of the Cat was decimated by the Windblown’s heavy horse attacking at their flank.

 

Once the sellswords of Yunkai were in full route, the army of Volantis again boarded their long, slim boats while the Windblown pursued the fleeing mercenaries: the Company of the Cat, the Long Lances, and the Second Sons.

 

The Shavepate spied the wreckage of the ill-prepared blockade. The ships of the Yunkai’i fleet and the nominal contribution that Qarth made to the blockade were all sinking from the assailment.

 

The unconventional navy from the city of Volantis rejoined after its almost immediate successes on both sea and land. Then, they steered towards Meereen. The narrow boats beached themselves on the copper-red sands. The fishing ships, cogs, and war galleys made for the docks of the harbor of Meereen.

 

The Shavepate had no love for Volantis, though he had never been to the city itself. In spite of his distrust, Skahaz was in no position to deny any fighter who would join his side.

 

He turned his attention back to the bedlam inside Meereen. The Sons of the Harpy had planned their attack well. When Skahaz left the main gates, the Unsullied were still trying to dig and break their way into Meereen, having made little progress. The Sons had not expected a fight at the harbor-side gates. _Why would they? The port was walled off by the ships of the Yunkai’i, the Qartheen, and some of their own family fleets._

 

“Open the gates!” yelled Skahaz.

 

The Volantine found unimpeded entrance into Meereen, and were welcomed by the Brazen Beasts waving down to them. The Shavepate doubted that men or slaves from Volantis could tell his soldiers from the Harpies, so he ordered the Brazen Beasts to remain on the wallwalk. When the foreigners rushed through, Skahaz assumed that the waving and the lack of arrows was enough to show them that they weren’t enemies.

 

Volantis spread like a swarm of beetles. They ran in all directions with no regard for formations. They shouted like pit fighters and didn’t seem to talk to even their own. These warriors struck everyone in their path, though women and girls were hit with their fists instead of swords. Skahaz doubted that the people of his city, who were caught between the Sons and this new army, could distinguish one from the other.

 

A tall fighter, clad in a suit of steel and wearing a helmet shaped like an octopus, sauntered beneath the brick-stone archway. The other men made way for him. Skahaz couldn’t miss the huge man with soot-black skin trailing the armored fighter. The follower wore a loose, ill-made robe of black and gold, which looked like a woman’s housecoat and dragged on the ground.

 

Suddenly, the walls seemed to shake as the Shavepate heard the cry of the green dragon. Its roar was like the scream of a thousand dying slaves. The Brazen Beasts around him trembled. Skahaz focused his gaze at the ruined, black pyramid of House Yherizan. The beast had taken it for his lair upon being loosed during the frog-prince’s puerile attempt to steal him from the pits beneath the queen’s pyramid. The dragon shot up into the air, soaring higher and higher until it was out of sight.

 

 _It’s an omen,_ thought the Shavepate. _But is it a good one or a foul one? I am one of the commanders for the Mother of Dragons. . . But, Meereen and the whole of the ancient Ghiscari Empire was once burned by the fire-beasts of Valyria._

 

Determining that the large fighter in strange armor was their leader, the Shavepate, with forty Brazen Beasts behind him, descended the stairs to treat with the man.

 

“You! Warrior! Talk with me!”

 

 _He doesn’t understand. . . none of them do,_ Skahaz mo Kandaq realized. _They are not of Volantis!_

 

The metal octopus waved the Shavepate through the crowd of unknown fighters. He took off his ridiculous helm and spoke in an unfamiliar tongue.

 

“He asks if you surrender,” said a voice at the foreigner’s side. The hulking man in long, black robes stepped forward. _He is a slave._ The tattoos on his face marked him as property of a red temple.

 

The Shavepate took off his hawk mask. “I am Skahaz mo Kandaq. The men on the walls are my Brazen Beasts, and I surrender nothing. Who is this leader? Why has he broken the blockade if he doesn’t want to help Meereen?”

 

The slave presented his leader, “He is Victarion Greyjoy, commander of the Iron Fleet. He sailed from Westeros to find and marry the Queen of Dragons and Fire.”

 

The Shavepate gave the slave a harsh smile. “I will be glad to dispose of Her Magnificence’s current husband as my thanks. Of the soldiers loyal to her, I lead the only ones still in the city. Tell this commander to order his men to the gates across the city and to destroy the barricade. The rest of the queen’s men are defeating the Yunkai’i.”

 

The foreigner grunted at the slave, who then said, “He asks if your men are cowards, for they stayed behind stone walls while real men fought.”

 

Skahaz couldn’t contain himself. “You tell him to close his lips or I’ll cut them from his face! I guard the city. The last line against Yunkai.”

 

Another comment was translated for him, “And you made a fine mess of that. You were overrun.”

 

“No man breeched my walls! These green shits are traitors. They are men of Meereen I would have executed months ago, if not for the Queen’s orders.”

 

The Shavepate told them that this, _Victarion_ , must have his warriors stop killing freedmen in the streets.

 

The octopus-man laughed.

 

“The commander says that his men will do as they like. He says that his men have traveled too far to be denied their bloodlust.”

 

“If this thick headed sea-beast seeks to wed the queen,” spat the Shavepate, “he’d best stop harming her people and bring the fight to her enemies.”

 

Skahaz knew the statement was weak. He couldn’t be sure that Daenerys would ever return, or if she was still alive. With the Unsullied caught outside the gates, this _Iron Fleet’s_ eleven thousand warriors could cut down Skahaz and all of his men, if they chose to.

 

The slave to R’hllor relayed, “Commander Victarion wants to know where the queen resides.”

 

“The Great Pyramid,” Skahaz answered, “the biggest of Meereen by half. But, she rode out on her dragon and is not back yet.”

 

“You spoke of enemies.”

 

“Yes, I did. The Queen’s.”

 

“Commander Victarion wants to know where the enemies you speak of are.”

 

The Shavepate let a thin smile upturn the corners of his mouth. He pointed out the pyramids of Ghazeen, Zhak, Dhazak, Pahl, Hazkar, Quazzar, Uhlez, Galare, and Loraq. . . And, the Temple of the Green Grace.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took way, way longer than I meant to before coming out with a new chapter. I hope you like the inclusion of this storyline. More developments within this plot-thread to come, but I assure you that I won't leave you hanging about Jon and Sansa.
> 
> Cheers!


	44. Jon - A Trial

The Greatjon was the only prisoner whom Jon knew well. Among the few Riverlanders kept beneath the Twins, Jon recognized Lord Lymond Goodbrook. Lymond, whom Jon met briefly during his time as a squire, was four-and-twenty and a friend of Edmure Tully. Others had been confined in the dungeons, but removed for one reason or another well before Jon and Bronze Yohn ever arrived. Besides the few noble prisoners who survived the massacre commonly called, “the Red Wedding,” smallfolk who’d accompanied Robb’s host, like washerwomen and craftsmen, had been made to work for the Freys or thrown in the dungeons if they had honor enough to refuse.

 

Nearly all of the two-and-sixty fighting men they found in Walder Frey’s dungeons had been captured _after_ Edmure Tully’s wedding ceremony. On his way to Lord Edmure’s sham of a wedding, Roose Bolton left behind the men in his host who were not likely to betray Robb Stark and brought only Dreadfort and Karstark soldiers. About six hundred cavalry and men-at-arms loyal to Houses Cerwyn, Stout, and Hornwood remained to guard the Ruby Ford under the command of the late Lord Medger Cerwyn’s captain, Ser Kyle Condon. After the Red Wedding, Bolton and Frey men ambushed those Northmen and took the survivors hostage. After Lord Bolton’s trap and their prolonged stays in Lord Frey’s dungeons, only one in ten of the original six hundred still drew breath on the day that Jon Whitewolf and Andar Royce emptied the cells.

 

On the night of their release, those from the North wanted to go to a godswood, but the Twins had none. The castle had been completed only a few centuries ago, well after most of the South had forsaken the old gods. Instead, Jon led them beyond the curtain walls to a nearby thicket.

 

_It’s been so long since I’ve done this._

 

He wished that they could have found a weirwood, but almost all of them south of the Neck, even those that had once grown outside of any castle godswood, had been felled more than a thousand years ago.

 

 _The last weirwood I saw. . . was when I said my vows to Lydrea_.

 

From his knees, Jon thrust the butt of his torch into the cold ground. He opened his eyes and tilted his head back. Jon could hear the gusts of an autumn gale whip through the branches above. He gazed up at the sturdy, old willow he’d chosen for his prayers and at the black sky behind it.

 

_Gods of my father, watch over Robb. I pray that Father can see me and that he approves of what I’ve done._

_Father, I found Sansa. She is safe and in the fortress of your boyhood._

_Robb, your wife is there too. I have been unkind, but when next I see her, I will do better. I’ll make her feel safe and I’ll try to learn more about her, so she’ll not feel like such a stranger. Perhaps then I shall better understand why. . ._

_Arya is still lost, I hope not forever. I keep my hope alive, but only in embers. If I think too much on her, my grief will consume me, Father. If she lives, I promise to find her. I swear it._

_Gods, please guide my actions._

_Please also watch over the souls of Bran and Rickon. Over Winterfell and my Wolfswood keep and all the people of both. Watch over the soul of Robb’s mother and Father’s wife, for their sakes and her own. And. . . let my wife’s soul be at peace. Let her cradle the spirit of our daughter in her arms._

 

Jon guessed that the prayers of the others were much the same as his own, by the mood during their return to the castle.

 

* * *

 

Lord Yohn wanted to give the freed prisoners a day and a half to recover before asking them any questions. The choice also afforded his own men the time to tend to their wounds.

 

They moved everyone across the bridge, to the east castle. Soon after he freed Robb’s men from the dungeons, Jon heard a rumor that his brother’s murder had taken place in the west keep’s audience hall. He was pleased to desert that side of the river.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of the second day, Jon overheard what was being said about the eastern castle. During Edmure Tully’s wedding, lords of lower standing and knights of lesser Houses celebrated on that side of the river. Walder Frey sent his bastards and the bastards of his sons to the eastern keep, which gave rise to the title of _the_ _Bastard’s Feast_. In reference to Jon, they resurrected the nickname for the impending trial and presumed executions.

 

The men of the Vale and the commonfolk of the Riverlands called him, “Ser Jon.” The surviving Northmen, however, styled him as “the Whitewolf” or “Ser Snow. ” In any other situation, he would have bristled at the later name, but the way they said it made Jon smile. The sound of the address was oft accompanied by the words, “Ned’s boy” or “the Young Wolf’s brother.”

 

Any mention of Robb stung, though Jon tried to hide the pain in how he reacted. Being inside the Twins and so close to the Freys re-opened a wound that had never properly healed.

 

* * *

 

During supper on the night before Walder Frey’s trial, Jon seated himself at a table of mostly Northmen. After a full day without confinement and with plenty of hot food, their spirits gradually lightened. Some southerners even ventured to sit with them.

 

“To Bronze Yohn!” Jon heard. He knew the man who said it as Kyle Condon by the eagle’s head on his tattered cloak. Like Jon, Ser Kyle was one of the few who kept the old gods and also held a knighthood.

 

Others echoed back, “Here, here.”

 

Condon continued his toast, “To Ser Snow!”

 

“Here, here.”

 

“The King of the North!” someone else cried out. No cheers followed. The words hung in the air.

 

 _King Jon of the North,_ he wondered, imagining how it would feel to say such words. _Lord Jon of Winterfell._

 

He was eager for a moment, but let that moment pass.

 

_I know whom those titles belong to. I would never steal them._

 

“Kindly meant,” said Ser Jon from his bench. “But, the North belongs to the Starks. Though I might will it, I am no Stark. The North has no king, but it does have a queen, should she choose it. Just as Winterfell has a not a lord, but a lady. Both belong to my trueborn sister, Sansa Stark, who is finally safe.”

 

A man bearing the purple and white of House Woolfield of the Sheepshead Hills, a seat traditionally sworn to Castle Hornwood, asked, “But Ser Snow, did she not wed a Lannister? Is she still a Stark?”

 

“She is not one of _them_ ,” he hissed, but quickly calmed himself. No matter how conscious he was of the need for poise, such talk about his sister cut through any restraint within him.

 

“Lady Sansa is still a maiden,” Jon said. “Her appalling mockery of a marriage is all but set aside.” Ser Jon saw doubt on the faces around him.

 

“Lady Sansa’s -no,” he corrected, “ _Queen_ _Sansa’s_ word on the matter is proof enough for any of her bannermen. But, a septa confirmed all my sister claimed.

 

“She told me of the Lannisters, of her time with them. They are fair of face and retched of heart.”

 

“I heard the Imp was condemned as a kinslayer,” said the man of House Woolfield. “A kinslayer twice over, and thus twice cursed,” he added.

 

 _‘They are all fair of face and retched of heart,’_ Jon remembered his sister telling him. _‘All except Lord Tyrion. Even if it scared me just to be near him, he wasn’t like the others.’_ Despite Sansa’s sympathetic, if conflicted, thoughts on the Imp, Jon was not inclined to stake a case for any Lannister’s honor at that moment.

 

Jon answered Woolfield, “Joffrey the Illborn, or whatever you care to call him, murdered my lord father in front of my sister and called it, ‘his mercy.’ He forced her to look upon her own father’s head on a spike.” Jon felt a growl escape his chest, but regained his composure not a moment later. “I’m not about to denounce whoever poisoned anyone such as that, but Queen Sansa insists that Tyrion the Imp was deliberately framed for that crime.”

 

“He still murdered his father,” said someone else.

 

“Might be he did,” Jon returned. _But if Tyrion’s father justly deserved to die, is there not some twisted type of honor to be found in having the strength to carry out such a sentence?_

 

The tension lingered until Greatjon Umber interrupted it, “To Sansa Stark, Queen in the North!”

 

Another round of cheers followed, some half-hearted, but others genuine.

 

“Ser Jon?” asked the Woolfield man, a bit too formally.

 

“Yes?”

 

“What of this dragon?” he persisted.

 

“ _Mallador!_ ” Lord Umber reproached, sternly. But, the rest of the table looked on with interest. Jon noticed that people from the other tables were looking to him as well. He nodded to indicate that he had no objection to the question.

 

“What do you wish to know about the dragon? Everything?” Jon smirked and pushed the flagon in front of him to the side.

 

“The dragon’s name is Viserion. Odd as it might sound, Viserion is a _she_. Murmur to yourselves if you must,” he said with a sly grin.

 

“I heard it shriek, m’lords,” said a man Jon didn’t know. “Betting stags to stars, no _man_ , beast or otherwise, could make such a piercing sound.” He grinned. “Reminds me of me dear ol’ mum.”

 

They all had a good laugh, and then Jon continued, “I first met her in Qarth.”

 

“Qarth?”

 

“Aye, Qarth. Back then, the dragon belonged to Daenerys Targaryen, who also had two others. They were tiny then, no bigger than dogs. Didn’t know they’d grow any, either. I did not swindle or steal, my lords. The dragon just found me in my forest keep, months later.”

 

“You met the Targaryen girl?” asked Lord Lymond Goodbrook.

 

Another man questioned, “How did you travel that far into Essos? And why?”

 

“What’d you have to do to get it to roast those Freys?” Jon heard from someone else.

 

Ser Jon replied, “Yes, my lord, I met her. A Mormont seemed to be her guardian. Aye, of Bear Island. I only exchanged a few words with them both. How I got to Qarth is a tale for another time.”

 

_I should never have left my holdfast._

 

Jon said, “As for the dragon’s actions yesterday, who wouldn’t rejoice in dispatching the Freys?” His smiled faltered. _Children. Frey children._ “She is only slightly less obedient than my direwolf.”

 

“Direwolf?” asked a man from the next table.

 

“All the Stark children have them!” bellowed the Greatjon, holding up his hand.

 

_Had. Had them._

 

Jon forced himself to smile. “And who better to guard Lady Stark?”

 

_Lady Stark. What of the fate of the other Lady Stark? What reason might Walder Frey have had to murder her? Is there any limit to the man’s madness or his cruelty? What could he have hoped to gain by murdering Lady Stark?_

 

Others resumed their meals, but Jon saw recognition of the title on the face of Lord Umber.

 

_And on the morrow, justice for her as well._

 

* * *

 

On the morning of the third day in the Twins, Ser Jon the Whitewolf, Greatjon Umber, Lord Goodbrook, Kyle Condon’s sixty-two surviving Northmen, and Bronze Yohn and his knights filled the audience hall. Lord Royce and Ser Jon were positioned in the center: Bronze Yohn as the head of the Vale contingent and Jon as his sister’s proxy.

 

He wondered if he should choose another place to sit. _Sansa and I were only half serious about the ‘Queen in the North’ title._

 

Still, Jon remained and waited for the Freys to file into the _Bastard’s Feast_.

 

Lord Walder Frey had survived the fires that consumed half his fortress. He was so old, he’d lost the ability to walk and needed to be carried to his seat. Frey was given a chair in the center of the room.

 

After their lord was placed in his seat, seven-and-forty other members of House Frey entered. Constituting that number were thirteen men grown, nine women of age, ten boys, and five-and-ten girls. In addition, relations of House Frey by marriage followed after them. Four wore the sigil of House Vance, two of House Goodbrook, and two of House Vypren.

 

Though neither Jon nor Lord Royce asked for introductions, a steward with bony, wrinkled fingers raised his hand and began to announce the Freys present. He motioned for a girl of age with Jon to step forward and announced her as, “Lady Frey.” _Does the steward mean that she is Walder Frey’s wife? Most like, she is a year younger than me._ The young spouse kept one hand on her pregnant belly. Her other hand was on the shoulder of a child no older than eight.

 

“The girl beside Lady Joyeuse Frey is Walda Frey. She is the daughter of Ser Edwyn, grand-daughter of Ser Stevron, and her great-grandfather’s heir.”

 

She was too frightened to bow or curtsey and clutched Lady Frey’s dress.

 

“Present yourself, girl,” said an angry Lord Walder. “Heh, heh. Of all the sons and grandsons and great-grandsons that infest my castle, the lordship will fall to this witless child when I die. When that beast burned Ser Edwyn’s encampment, it made a poor choice for my lands.”

 

The withered lord looked at Bronze Yohn and said, “The girl’s grandfather, my first-born son, was birthed by a Royce. _Perra_ Royce, if I recall _that_ wife’s name.”

 

“My grandfather’s sister,” Yohn responded. “She is long dead and took no part in your crimes.”

 

The scrawny representative of House Frey resumed, “Young Lady Walda’s uncle, Black Walder, is to follow after her in the line of inheritance. However, he is not within the castle. After him, the next in line is Lady Walda’s cousin, sired by the late Petyr Frey.” The steward then pointed at an even younger girl, who clung to her mother’s yellow gown, which was decorated by the nightingales of House Caron of Nightsong. The gaunt steward announced the child. “I present Lady Perra Frey.”

 

“Yes, heh heh,” chortled Lord Walder. “Petyr Pimple no doubt named the girl for that Royce great-grandmother of hers. _Perra_ , just as I said.”

 

At that point, Bronze Yohn decided that he’d heard as much as he cared to and said, “That will be enough for the introductions, my lord.”

 

 _A thousand thanks, Lord Yohn,_ Jon thought. He did not doubt that they might spend a fortnight just listing the names of Freys if the steward was allowed to speak on all forty-seven in attendance.

 

“And now, let this inquiry of justice commence,” Royce declared.

 

“Heh, heh. Lord Yohn,” said Walder Frey, while glaring at the high table, “I had no idea the Crossing now fell under the purview of the Lordship of Runestone. Mayhaps, I must needs consult a map of this new kingdom.”

 

“Lord Frey,” said Royce. “You are here as a sworn subject of King Robb Stark. Your lands are still within _his_ dominion.”

 

Frey struggled to adjust himself in the chair. He then glanced around the room. “If I await his judgment, my lord, when will Robb Stark be attending to this audience? I fail to see him.”

 

Jon clenched his teeth and held his tongue. _You have no right to even speak Robb’s name, Frey!_

 

With a grotesque expression of pleasure on his face, Lord Frey continued, “The Stark boy warged himself into a wolf-creature and attacked his hosts. Would that you had come sooner, my lord. I’d have shown you his corpse. A wolf’s head on a man’s body. A freak.”

 

“No!” Jon got to his feet. _Robb attacked the bannerman hosting him? Turned into a wolf? Slander not even the Frey’s most slow-witted lackey is like to believe._ “You’ll not mention his name again. Another ill word about him crosses your lips, and we can end this trial right then!”

 

“Heh, heh. Boy, who are _you_ to order about a lord in his own castle?”

 

“That’s Robb Stark’s brother,” announced Ser Damon Shett, the Knight of Gull Tower and a bannerman of Bronze Yohn.

 

“Boy, aren’t you a bit old? And not quite dead enough to be either of them?”

 

Lord Yohn grabbed Jon’s shirt, but he didn’t try to move.

 

A man with a distinct resemblance to a weasel stood up behind old Walder. He kept all of his weight on his left leg and showed no sign of being intimidated by the present forum. “Father, I believe this to be the bastard. Though, you are correct in thinking him less dead than his reputation.”

 

 _Bastard_. The sound of it had never tasted so bitter.

 

Lord Lymond Goodbrook said, “Lothar Frey, you’ll have your turn. Then we’ll see who gets a reputation for being dead.”

 

 _Yes. However, he won’t hang for this. No, this one and his father will die in the old way. I’ll see to that._ Jon held his tongue and sat back down, to Bronze Yohn’s surprise.

 

Lame Lothar replied to Goodbrook, “Quite the threat coming from the tongue of the Lord Defender of the Privy.”

 

Lord Lymond was taken prisoner during the Red Wedding. He’d been in the privy when the bloodshed began. As such, the Frey guardsmen had barred him in, until the killing was over. Thus, Goodbrook became a prisoner, rather than a corpse.

 

Lymond had fought at the side of his friend and liege lord during the early defeat beneath the walls of Riverrun, where Edmure Tully was captured, and at the false victory of the Battle of Stone Mill. Because of this, he felt he still had much to prove and had relished the chance to march north with King Robb.

   

And yet, Goodbrook was shamed thoroughly and denied that chance. When serving his daily gruel, the Freys and their gaolers subjected him to crude taunts. Lymond’s family didn’t even have enough coin to meet Lord Walder’s ransom demands. The stubborn old weasel had refused to believe their pleas, or he simply did not care.

 

“Heh, heh,” muttered Lord Walder Frey. He addressed Yohn Royce, “Why did you bring the bastard here? What say does he have in my hall, beneath my roof, and on my lands?”

 

Royce answered, “Ser Jon represents Queen Sansa Stark, heir to the Young Wolf. This _knight_ speaks with her voice.”

 

Lothar Frey said, “The Twins acknowledges only King Tommen as our liege and no queen besides his wife, Queen Margery. Lady Sansa Lannister, if in fact you even found the girl, holds no claim over us or to our allegiance. To say otherwise is treason and an affront to the Iron Throne.”

 

“Bugger the Kingslayer’s bastard and his Tyrell wet-nurse!” Greatjon Umber shot back.

 

Ser Jon wanted to beat the insolent smirk from Lothar’s face. _Breathe,_ he told himself. _Calm yourself. You will have justice and your revenge soon enough. Bridle your anger._

 

Jon looked down from the dais at the hoard of Freys in the dreary audience chamber. Observing the hall itself, he noticed the lack of color, warmth, and character. Though Winterfell and his own keep were grey as well, neither resembled the Twins. The rock of the Frey stronghold had neither the muted dignity that colored every stone in Winterfell, nor the aura of solitude and resilience in the flecked stones of his own holdfast. In Jon’s eyes, the Twins’ eastern keep seemed a pitiful imposter of the great castles of Westeros, whose constructions preceded its by many centuries.

 

_An upstart House intent on swindling and murdering for its place in the Seven Kingdoms, rather than determining to earn its standing with generations of upholding its honor. And for that, you killed my brother._

 

“In Queen Sansa Stark’s name,” Ser Jon directed for all to hear. “I ask if any man or woman of House Frey can give just-cause for your crimes. Her Grace has no patience for cowards’ fables better suited for the bed-stories of nursemaids.”

 

Walder Frey squinted up at him. Jon couldn’t attribute the old weasel’s expression to a particular emotion.

 

A man of some two-and-thirty years came forward. He was taller and brawnier than Lame Lothar. He announced himself as Ser Raymund Frey, and the steward added that he was Lord Walder’s eleventh son. Raymund stated, “What my father said of Robb Stark was no lie. But if you refuse to acknowledge that truth, at least remember the boy’s insult on House Frey. He was an oathbreaker and a traitor; he died a traitor’s death.”

 

Jon could see that this trial bore no resemblance to the trial of Littlefinger. In the Gates of the Moon, those at court seemed to be focused on discourse. He saw that this deliberation was on the threshold of unraveling into absurdity, and that the Freys were intent on offering lies more brazen than even Baelish concocted in his defense.

 

Anger boiled deep inside Jon. His brow reddened as he did his best to quell any display of his emotions. As calmly as he could, Jon said, “King Robb was no traitor to you, Frey. He insulted your House to spare his wife her honor, yes. But, Lord Edmure Tully offered to take his place and make good on the spirit of Robb’s promise. It was _Lord Frey_ , who broke trust. _He_ accepted my brother’s recompense. Thus, any dispute over the broken betrothal was settled.

 

“Other Houses took up arms against King Robb and the North, and yet those enemies have more honor than any of you. House Frey did not meet my brother on the battlefield. No, your House violated guest-right and murdered the king you swore to serve.”

 

“He broke his word and insulted House Frey,” Raymund repeated, ignoring Ser Jon’s answer.

 

Greatjon Umber leaned forward in his seat and called out, “And what cause did you have to slit Lady Stark’s throat, Frey?”

 

Ser Raymund stammered for a moment, offering no coherent response.

 

Lame Lothar answered on his behalf, “Catelyn Tully killed Aegon Frey, Lord Walder’s grandson. He was a harmless simpleton and jester. No man can claim that her death was anything but just.”

 

“Bugger your arse with a studded cudgel!” Lord Umber cursed. “You Freys had already started your kingslaying and murdering when Ned’s wife raised a blade to the half-wit’s neck! May the gods remember Lady Stark for dying with fight in her heart and for sending a Frey to the hells with her last breath.”

 

Lord Frey laughed through his nose. He sneered his toothless mouth at the Greatjon. “If you’re intent on obeying the whims of some sister-whore of the _Dead Wolf_ , why not bow to the cunny of the other one? The one in Winterfell spilling her maiden’s blood all over Ramsey Bolton’s cock?”

 

“That is no sister of the Young Wolf,” said Bronze Yohn.

 

Jon felt his anger wash over him. He was frozen in a gelid rage. Yohn Royce’s voice sounded half a league away as he said something about how the real Arya Stark left the capitol months before the impostor did. Lame Lothar’s response about convenient lies slipped through Jon’s comprehension.

 

Viserion’s yell echoed in from the Water Tower. Most of the crowd turned towards the sound, but Walder Frey kept looking straight ahead.

 

“I’ve heard enough,” growled Jon. His patience for mockery from the men who murdered his brother was exhausted. “Lord Umber is familiar with all that happened and undoubtedly capable of seeing through Frey deceit. My lord, I task you with taking my place as Queen Sansa’s proxy for the remainder of today’s trial.”

 

Jon stood and offered the Greatjon his seat. The towering Northman clapped Jon on the back, and grinned at Raymund Frey as he lowered himself into the center chair on the dais.

 

* * *

 

Ser Jon held his composure until he returned to his chambers. He latched the door and soon found himself pacing across the bedroom.

 

_Bloody Freys! It is not enough to murder Robb, they insist on defaming his good name too. What am I doing here? And, why did I consent to this trial? My dragon-forged sword and Viserion’s teeth are more than sharp enough to put an end to that farce of an inquiry._

_If justice requires such mummers’ follies, then mayhaps revenge is the better aim._

 

Jon gripped the edge of the oaken wardrobe. He readied himself to topple it, to smash the bureau to splinters, but caught himself.

 

_What is this anger ruling me? What sort of man am I in the midst of becoming?_

 

He leaned his shoulder against the wall and let himself slide to the floor. Jon clenched his fists and bit the inside of his cheek. In an instant, he became aware of the feel of leathery scales against his teeth. Of what felt like their own accord, Jon’s serrated teeth sank into the flesh of a lizard-lion. With his claws imbedded in the creature’s underbelly, he felt his neck snap back, tearing off the head of his prey. Lukewarm blood flowed onto his tongue. He licked at the meat caught in his fangs. Jon’s throat rumbled and a moment later fire streamed from his mouth. The heat charred the juicy meat. As he began to chew, he could feel the crunch of the bones and the seared flesh.

 

 _My anger,_ he thought, _it has left me, just as I left my body._

_No,_ Jon realized a moment later. _It has not. It only feels at home in this skin._

 

He let thoughts of the Freys fill his mind. In his own skin, Jon had felt as if his rage was something he couldn’t contain. While joined with Viserion, the emotion didn’t threaten to boil over. The dragon seemed to possess a limitless capacity for fury.

 

A knock startled him. He opened his eyes and took a minute to remember where he was.

 

“Ser? Are you in there? Ser? Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” Jon said. “Fine. I’m fine,” he repeated and walked over to open the door.

 

* * *

 

Bronze Yohn’s squire led him to the secluded room where the others had gathered. The faces of the lords and knights ranged from grim to furious. None looked pleased by the further discussion.

 

Jon leaned against the wall. He watched and listened.

 

“And what if he is telling the truth?” Lymond Goodbrook asked. “Why would he lie?”

 

Ser Kyle Condon persisted, “Because he faces death, obviously.”

 

“But Frey has to know that we will send ravens,” said Goodbrook. “If he’s lying, we will soon know. His life will then be forfeit.”

 

The frustrated knight from Castle Cerwyn shook his head. “His life is already forfeit! Walder Frey is desperate and taking him at his word grants him a stay of execution.”

 

_What lie would he expect to save him now?_

 

 “We can’t take that chance!” Lord Lymond shouted. “This is Lord Edmure! His life is in the balance!”

 

Jon took this opportunity to deflect the mounting agitation and find out what he’d missed. “What of Edmure Tully?” he asked. “How does anything that happens in the Twins bear upon his fate?”

 

Goodbrook and Condon broke apart. Lymond looked at Jon and said, “Walder Frey swore that even though Lord Edmure is held in Casterly Rock, Frey men guard him. They await word of Roslin’s birthing.”

 

“Roslin?” asked Jon.

 

“The Frey whore who bedded Tully during the Red Wedding!” Kyle Condon shouted.

 

_The Red Wedding._

 

The name tore at Jon. _I bet whoever thought of it thinks himself so very clever. I bet someone has already made a song of it. Most like, many someones._

 

The distressed Lymond Goodbrook said, “Walder Frey insists that he has men ready to end Edmure’s life if a son is born to him. If those men hear of us executing Freys, they will kill Edmure!”

 

Ser Damon Shett, an older knight from the Vale, interjected his calming voice, “The Lannisters would never allow it. Elsewise, why demand custody of him? More than likely, they’ve dismissed Lord Frey’s men guarding Lord Tully, if ever there were any securing Tully to start.”

 

Jon pondered all he’d heard, and then asked, “Have we any hostages that Kevan Lannister, Lord Regent for Tommen, would exchange for Ser Edmure?”

 

“Mayhaps Walder Frey,” suggested Mallador Woolfield.

 

Lymond Goodbrook snorted. “What would they care of the old weasel? _Lord_ Edmure is the true Lord Paramount of the Trident. They’d never trade him, except for one of their own.”

 

 _Which we do not have_ , went unsaid.

 

“There is another way,” announced Jon. He pushed off from the wall and stood straight. Ser Jon waited for all eyes to fall to him. “If we have no means to trade for Edmure, we must _demand_ his return.”

 

Most stared at him in silence. Someone scoffed. Jon looked to Bronze Yohn and said, “We continue with the plan, my lord. Except we also send a raven and a rider. Or a party of riders, to be certain our letter reaches King’s Landing.”

 

“And Ser Jon, what would such a letter say?” asked Condon.

 

Lord Yohn answered for him, “Dragon.”

 

Royce let the room reflect on his single word.

 

Jon gave the slightest of nods and allowed his anger to simmer. “My lords, I will burn this castle into ruin. House Frey is at an end. Every man among them will be executed. Every woman and girl will be sent to wherever septas and silent sisters are trained. Every boy will serve the Night’s Watch. All will disavow the name, _Frey_. Henceforth, using that name - alone - will be cause for that person to forfeit his or her life.

 

“Riverrun is still sworn to the North, and the North remembers. Edmure is not just Queen Sansa’s bannerman, but also her uncle, her family. If the Lannisters harm him, I will make a desert of their lands. Not a blade of grass will remain. For a generation, they will reap only ashes. They will find no shelter but dust. That is what the letter shall say. And when they ask if such threats are real, hushed voices will whisper the tale of, ‘ _The Freys of the Crossing’._ ”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like where this chapter is leading us. I'm going to try to get back to more steady updates. 
> 
> Cheers and thanks ahead of time for any comments!


	45. The Bold & The Shavepate - Another Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barristan Selmy encounters a man he never expected to find. . . inside the Great Pyramid of Meereen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, the double page-break marks the change in POV.

“Back to the city!” Ser Barristan Selmy ordered. His triumph was written in the smile on his face. He looked to the boys riding on either side of him. The lads Barristan had anointed before the attack, Ser Tumco Lho of the Basilisk Isles, Ser Larraq the Lash, and Ser Red Lamb, all grinned and cheered their victory. Selmy put his heels to Queen Daenerys’ silver mare and hollered to the boys, “With me, knights!”

 

Columns of Yunkai’i spearmen remained, but attacking them would have been pointless. Most of their leaders were dead or dying, either ridden down by Barristan’s cavalry or trapped in the burning pavilions. The trebuchets were ablaze and crumbling.

 

_The siege is over. Meereen is safe, my queen. . . Wherever you might be._

 

Leading the army’s horse back to the gates, Selmy discovered that there were mounds of debris on either side of the archway. Once inside, he saw what was left of Meereen, and his mood darkened.

 

_The bloody Shavepate._

 

Skahaz mo Kandaq commanded the only soldiers who stayed within the city walls during the battle, and Ser Barristan hadn’t seen any Yunkai’i attempt to scale the ramparts.

 

The dead greeted Selmy. They lay in the streets and gutters, killed by arrows and swords. Men, boys, mothers, children, all were strewn about the entry-plaza, just inside the gates. Ser Barristan rode to the Great Pyramid to find out what occurred here.

 

_If the Shavepate has sacked the queen’s pyramid. . ._

 

On his way through the city streets, the Queensguard knight saw the worst of it. A pile of corpses eight feet high laid in the city’s square. _I see no dead Brazen Beasts._

 

The Great Pyramid had been mercifully passed over by the butchers. The Shavepate’s guards parted for Selmy and his young knights without a word. Barristan rode through the long entrance, through the pyramid’s thirty-foot thick, outer walls. Not knowing where else to go, he decided to proceed to Daenerys’s apartments to find her little scribe. _Missandei will have seen what happened._ Uncertain of the welcome he would encounter, Barristan dismounted and bypassed the grand, marble steps.

 

He looked at his former squires. _The lads did well today._ “Ser Red Lamb,” Barristan said, “Help Ser Larraq from his horse and see to his arrow wound.”

 

The boy whom everyone called, “The Lash,” insisted that he didn’t need help, but Barristan shook away his protest. He told the young man, “Let him assist you, that is my command.” To the Red Lamb, he said, “Pull the quarrel from Larraq’s chest, clean it with boiled wine, then plug the wound with clean linens.” Selmy would have preferred to make certain that his standard-bearer was alright by tending to Larraq himself, but Barristan had another duty that demanded his attention.

 

“Ser Tumco,” he directed the finest knight of the three, “Lead the cavalry who rode with us and organize the freedman trailing after us. See that they stand ready _inside_ the entrance of this pyramid. Do not allow those damned Brazen Beasts to push you outside the doors. This day of battle might not yet be finished.”

 

Alone, he continued deeper into the structure, until he reached the servants’ stairs. Weary and cautious, Selmy climbed methodically upwards.

 

_Would that Meereen followed the Faith, rather than their Ghiscari gods. Mayhaps then they would’ve built seven floors in place of their sacred three-and-thirty._

 

* * *

 

 “Ser!” Missandei greeted him as soon as he opened the door into the queen’s apartments. The girl swung her legs over the side of the bed. “This one didn’t mean to stay in Her Grace’s bed. This one-”

 

“Hush, child,” he assured her. “You’ve not done anything you need worry about.”

 

The former slave from Naath sat back against Daenerys’ cushioned headboard.

 

“Missandei, I need to know: what happened to the city? Where is the Shavepate?”

 

“Noble Skahaz is in the throne room, this one- I mean, _I_ think. But you look angry, Ser Knight. Why would you be mad at him?”

 

“Why?” Barristan could help but shoot back. “If the sight were not so horrible, child, I would tell you to look out on the balcony.”

 

She scrunched up her face. The expression meant that she knew something he didn’t, but did not wish to contradict him.

 

“You need not fear this old knight taking offense, sweetling. Please tell me what you know.”

 

Missandei kept silent for another second. The countenance on her face remained as dispassionate as ever, but her words came pouring out of her, “The harpies were killing everyone and the Unsullied couldn’t - and the Brazen Beasts were on the walls and then - the squid-men came. First they were bad, but then they weren’t, but they were - and, this one did not know if Ser Knight would come back or not- and then you were here.”

 

“The _harpies_? The _squid-men_?”

 

“Yes,” Missandei replied. “The Sons of the Harpy killed many. Freedmen, children, many and more. The squid-men came out of the sea and killed the harpies.”

 

Still uncertain about much of what the scribe told him, Ser Barristan descended the immense, marble stairs that led from the queen’s apartments directly into the audience hall. He could hear voices echoing up the spiraled staircase.

 

 _Are those shouts from a quarrel or a celebration?_  

 

When Barristan entered the expansive room, his eyes scanned the hall for an oily, shaven head. He caught sight of the Shavepate leaning against the purple stone wall, not far from the base of the stairway.

 

Selmy’s gaze then proceeded beyond Skahaz mo Kandaq to the Throne of Meereen. After Barristan arrested King Hizdahr, he’d brought in a round table for the council he assembled. Selmy had also removed the pair of gold-cast, dragon thrones that Hizdahr zo Loraq had placed atop the stone pedestal. Though the gaudy seats were still absent, Barristan saw someone on top of the eleven step platform. A man with a bruising build sat in one of Barristan’s plain chairs and watched the celebration below. He gorged himself on a lamb’s leg and drank wine straight from a flagon. He wore a black and gold sigil on his chest.

 

 _A kraken,_ Selmy realized. _A Greyjoy. A ‘squid-man’._

 

Ser Barristan crossed to the center of the audience hall. “What are you doing on Her Grace’s throne, Greyjoy? Why are you in Meereen?”

 

The burly man grunted. “I am Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. You had best show your soon-to-be-king some respect.”

 

“My king? Go back to your sea and your salt-stained rocks. Meereen knows only one ruler, our _queen_.”

 

Barristan’s round table had been dragged to one side of the raised throne, and smaller tables had been arranged around it. The Ironborn were drunk and loud. However, based upon what Selmy knew of them, he was happy that at least they weren’t taking turns violating maidens on the dais.

 

Skahaz mo Kandaq walked over to Barristan. In Valyrian, he said, “You see what comes of weakness? The Sons of the Harpy killed and killed. The Greyjoy helped me _end_ that.”

 

Victarion watched from his perch, as the Shavepate and a towering man with a tattooed face told Ser Barristan of the battle within Meereen.

 

The Ironmen had saved the city. To curry favor with Her Grace, they only sacked and raped their way through specific pyramids, those of the Great Masters and the Temple of the Graces.

 

Anger boiled within Ser Barristan. He had entrusted the safety of the city to Skahaz mo Kandaq and his Brazen Beasts. “Skahaz, you had no right! Queen Daenerys didn’t want _any_ of her people harmed, even the most powerful Houses!”

 

The Shavepate didn’t laugh. The sound that emanated from deep in his chest was more a rumble. “No, Ser Grandfather. Not _her_ people, _harpies_.”

 

Victarion Greyjoy spoke up, “You need not fear, Barristan the Bold. I have been told of your devotion. I mean to wed and bed your queen, not kill her.”

 

The thought of this Ironborn reaver violating his young queen turned Ser Barristan’s stomach. Though fury began to rise within him, he said coolly, “She has a husband.”

 

“I grant you permission to ask him what he thinks of the match,” Greyjoy said, laughing. He pointed his lamb shank to the far corner of the room.

 

The chains hanging down from the ceiling, which had previously secured an ornate candelabrum, now held Hizdahr zo Loraq. Someone had linked the strings of bronze ringlets to two, iron meat-hooks, which were sunk into the king consort’s chest. His crown tilted down the side of his bloody face and was held in place by an axe in the top of his skull.

 

Victarion shouted his question, “So when will I see our widowed queen? This greasy, Ghis bastard has been silent on that.”

 

_She lives. She has to._

 

Conveying no emotion, Selmy answered, “Queen Daenerys flew off on one of her dragons. Her Grace answers to no man and does as she chooses. She shall return when _she_ decides to, not sooner.”

 

Victarion peered down from the throne, and gestured for Ser Barristan to leave his presence.

 

“No, Greyjoy,” he said with steel in his voice. “In the queen’s absence, I am her Hand and rule in her stead. Until such time as she chooses to wed you, you are no king of mine and neither are you the commander of her city.”

 

“Would you dare to test your metal against _mine?"_ Victarion challenged in return. “Beg my forgiveness, old man, and I might let you live.”

 

Victarion got to his feet and picked up the black battleaxe leaning against the throne. Every Ironman and servant turned their eyes to Ser Barristan. Greyjoy was bigger than him, Selmy noticed. His plate armor thicker and heavier. As tired as he was, the older knight could see that the captain was at least as weary.

 

_Greyjoy fought today too. He’s been eating meat off the bone and drinking his fill. His axe is like to be getting heavier every moment he holds it._

 

Victarion’s tattooed servant fled from the audience hall, rushing past Barristan. Greyjoy directed an unconcerned snort at the black-robed man’s back.

 

Ser Barristan Selmy straightened his posture and slapped the wind-swept dust from his cloak. He silently offered a prayer to the Warrior, asking for strength for his arms and his will.

 

He stared into his foe’s savage, black eyes. “I would relish the chance to test my steel against yours, Greyjoy. Come down from where you do not belong and show me your words are more than wind escaping your crooked mouth!”

 

_If I am to meet my end, I do it as an anointed knight, a sworn brother of the Kingsguard and of the Queensguard._

 

* * *

* * *

 

The Shavepate did not need to grasp the precise words that Barristan Whitebeard and Victarion Greyjoy were exchanging to understand that their argument would soon lead to bloodshed. Skahaz Mo Kandaq hissed at two of his serjeants. To the one in the cat mask, he ordered, “To the Unsullied with you.”

 

“Master?” the man questioned.

 

“ _To the Unsullied_ ,” he repeated. Quickly, Skahaz instructed, “The squid-men took the Temple of the Green Graces, but some are also in the pyramids of Houses Loraq and Ghazeen. You tell the Unsullied that the Queen’s knight is about to challenge the Squid King for her honor. Eight hundred eunuchs to those two pyramids, two thousand to the temple, and the rest are to come here.”

 

The Shavepate turned to the second Brazen Beast in front of him, but quickly spun back to the first. “And you tell Grey Worm that the eunuchs are to obey the Brazen Beasts I’ll be sending. Tell him that the queen’s knight commanded this. Go!”

 

“You,” he said to the second one. “Ready our Beasts. Send for captains and guards to lead the Unsullied. They are to guard the passages out of the pyramids. Do not fight unless the squid-men attack. But,” Skahaz reminded, “they will.”

 

 _If Ser Grandfather dies. . ._  

 

He dreaded where it would lead. Though he did not care for the weak-willed foreigner, the Shavepate knew that the city would likely descend into further bloodshed without a unifying leader. The dragon-girl was once that figurehead, but with her gone or dead, the people’s allegiance fell to Barristan for the time. _Even with the Sons of the Harpy dead, freedmen, sellswords, and shavepates might make war. . . Without the iron grip needed to bridle them._

 

With his two messengers sent off and his guard around him, Skahaz could only wait and watch.

 

The Squid King bellowed down the steps at the knight. He did so in the tongue of the Sunset Kingdoms. The Shavepate grabbed one of his soldiers. “Upstairs,” he commanded. “Bring me the queen’s scribe, the Naathi girl. I will have her translate their foreign words.” With a nod, the young man in a dog’s head mask sprinted away.

 

The two fighters were still arguing when dog-mask and the child reached him, out of breath. In his rush to flee the audience hall before a fight began, the slave to R’hllor, whom the pirates called Black Flame, nearly barreled into the girl and the Brazen Beast.

 

Caring little of the whims of tattooed cowards, the Shavepate said to the scribe, “Tell me,” and gestured at Barristan Whitebeard and the Greyjoy captain.

 

She told Skahaz that the Squid King said, “Old man, apologize or I shall kill you.”

 

“Ser Barristan says, ‘Come down to fight me or you are a liar with a crooked mouth.’”

 

At those words,  Victarion Greyjoy thundered down the steps of the throne. He picked up his octopus helm and his shield at the base. He clanged his axe against his shield, challenging Barristan. The knight was bloody from the day’s battle and without a helm to protect his head. He unsheathed his longsword, but had no shield. Selmy looked at one of the Brazen Beasts with a shield slung across his back.

 

The Shavepate waved at his soldier, who tossed it to Barristan.

 

Greyjoy attempted the first attack. He swung his double edged axe over his head and straight down on the queen’s knight. Barristan deflected the cut with the flat of his sword, sending the black steel to crash into the stone floor.

 

A spark flashed from the collision and the old, Westerosi fighter kicked the handle of the battleaxe. The pirate-master’s grip was like the jaw of a hrakkar, and he did not drop his weapon. The man swung the back edge of his axe up at Barristan’s chest.

 

The squid’s axe glanced off Selmy’s breastplate. Barristan stumbled back for a moment. Greyjoy threw back his head and laughed up at the rafters. His men cheered him on in their vulgar, foreign tongue.

 

When the pirate-king rushed forward, the Shavepate saw him sway on his feet. Though he was no stranger to war, Skahaz mo Kandaq had seen far more pit fights than battles. The scene in the audience hall of the Great Pyramid of Meereen reminded him of the former. It was not uncommon for a slave master to send fine foods and wine to a combatant’s ready-room below the fighting pits. He would hope to get the slave bloated and drunk before combat and bet on his opponent.

 

_Victarion Greyjoy looks like someone came to him, before wagering on Barristan Whitebeard, though the drunkard ate and imbibed all on his own._

 

The queen’s knight thrust his sword forward. The tip of it was as quick as an asp’s venomous fang. But, Barristan’s steel was far less deadly. His strike met the seafaring warrior’s armor, but did not pierce it.

 

Barristan then ducked under a wild swing of Greyjoy’s axe.

 

_The squid is stronger and he is certainly not slow, but the knight is faster. Selmy might be strong in his own right, but he lacks for his enemy’s furor._

 

For a moment, they only circled each other. Skahaz watched, his beady eyes trained on Barristan’s face. The bearded, old warrior kept his gaze focused on his opponent. As he shuffled around, he stepped on a serving platter, discarded on the tiled floor. Barristan kicked it out of his way. From beneath his metal helm, the pirate-lord barked an order to his men or slaves. Two of them scurried about on their rail-thin legs and began picking up the cups, plates, and knives that his soldiers had thrown about during their feasting.

 

Barristan allowed the servants to pass. Once ready, he held up his shield and closed the distance. He trailed one foot far behind the other. When Greyjoy did not swing, Selmy opened his guard and stabbed at his enemy’s strange and fierce faceguard.

 

Pit fighters rarely approached Barristan’s age in good health. The few who lived to see thirty did so by relying on strength and quickness. Just like the two most heralded brawlers in Meereen’s long history, Half-face and the Man of Red and Black, who both fought into their later years; Selmy did not have a young man’s speed. Young slaves loved to wave their spearheads or arakhs as fast as they could. Some could do so at a blinding pace, but they were really just praying for their iron to meet its mark.

 

 _In a fight of two unseasoned slaves,_ Skahaz recalled his grandfather telling him long ago, _bet on the fastest. But if one or both are true warriors, watch the strikes. He who strikes hard and sharp, that is the one to bet your golden honors on._

 

Victarion’s axe landed on Barristan’s shield. _A hard strike, but he is not so sharp in his aim._ The tip of the knight’s sword shot out and hit the gorget covering Greyjoy’s throat. _Sharp, but not hard enough._

 

Feeling safe against his enemy’s blade, the squid-master let his shield arm hang at his side. He put his full weight behind a hack at Whitebeard’s shield. Heavy steel made contact with the iron-banded wood, but as it did, Selmy slid to his right.

 

Victarion’s lunge carried him four steps past Barristan Whitebeard. He stumbled, but kept his footing. _Many a lesser fighter would have crashed to the ground at that, even without being drunk and covered in a suit of metal._

 

Not only did the pirate-lord steady himself, but the squid turned in the opposite direction, spinning and hurling the black axe-head in a flat arc at his foe.

 

Barristan hadn’t expected such a counter and steel bit into the upper part of his sword arm.

 

Whitebeard’s blade clanged to the floor. The sound echoed off the high, inclined ceiling. The Shavepate only then realized that all in attendance had been watching in silence. A second later, the quiet was broken by the shouts of the squid-men.

 

Greyjoy pointed his axe at Selmy and told him something.

 

Over the chaotic cheering, Missandei said, “He says, ‘Kneel and I shall grant you your life, Barristan the Daring. Has a pirate of iron ever taken a more glorious thrall?’

 

“Now Ser Barristan is saying, ‘My life is still mine own. Come and take it from me, if you think you can.’”

 

Selmy struggled to pull his dagger from his right hip with his injured arm. He gripped it, pointing down, and brought his hand just below his chin.

 

_Damn this pirate to the dust of Old Ghis! Ser Grandfather, stab the fish-man!_

 

Greyjoy’s battleaxe crashed into Selmy’s shield once more. Before he could draw it back, Barristan brought his knife down on Greyjoy’s wrist.

 

Skahaz couldn’t tell if the blade found the gap between the pirate’s gauntlet and his armguard. The strike looked good, but his enemy didn’t flinch.

 

Captain Victarion hit the knight’s shield again and again. The iron straps holding the wood together wailed as they split apart. The bigger man laughed in a menacing and almost gleeful tone. The Shavepate saw the pirate-warrior’s chest heave as he tried to catch his breath.

 

Greyjoy summoned all the strength that remained in him and tried to make an end of Barristan’s cracked shield. The axe buried in the top edge and split the wood. The black steel continued down until it cleaved into Barristan Whitebeard’s forearm. The knight held tight to his shield, and the force of the battleaxe dragged him off his feet. He groaned in pain, but leaned hard on the upturned elbow of his shield arm. The dross of the wood trapped Greyjoy’s axe, and Selmy pinned the cruel, ashen weapon to the floor.

 

Victarion was unwilling to yield his axe and held tight to the handle. This forced him to double over awkwardly at the waist. The crown of his steel helm nearly collided with Barristan’s face. Despite this, Greyjoy did not fall.

 

In a strike to rival the deadliest adder of Old Ghis, Barristan Selmy jabbed with the dagger in his free hand. Instantly, a scream pierced through the room and rang through the Great Pyramid’s marble slabs.

 

Skahaz mo Kandaq couldn’t see where the rapid gash landed.

 

When Greyjoy teetered back, Whitebeard’s knife was through the visor of Victarion’s great helm, and its handle was sticking out of his eye.

 

The squid-king dropped his axe and shield. His armored hands went to the hilt of the knife. He screamed again and yanked the blade out.

 

Blood poured from the front of his visor. Victarion stumbled blindly, then sank to his knees.

 

Barristan put his knee into the inside face of his shield. He used his weight to pull his shield-arm free of the steel edge of the axe. The bloody knight dropped his shield, as the battleaxe was still wedged into it. Immediately after, he clutched his gnarled left arm and crashed to the stone tiles.

 

“Get up!” shouted the Shavepate.

 

Barristan put one hand on the floor and tried to push himself to his knees. He couldn’t and slid back down.

 

At the same time, Victarion was scratching at his armored face and ruined eye.

 

The Shavepate then heard the men shouting and saw that Barristan had crawled over to his lost sword. He used it to prop himself up. Selmy got his feet beneath him, clutching his sword with both hands. It served as a crutch, and Barristan Whitebeard crept over to Victarion.

 

The squid-king threw off his helm and pressed his thumb into his eye socket to stem the flow of blood. With his other hand, he wiped the blood from his remaining eye in time to see Selmy raise his sword like an unwieldy knife.

 

_He’s won! That stupid, old gull has won!_

 

Barristan struggled to bring the blade down, aiming for the side of Victarion’s neck.

 

One of the squid-men dove out from the crowd of onlookers and met Barristan’s steel with his spear. Selmy pressed down with all his strength, trying to overpower the interfering pirate.

 

Victarion Greyjoy reached out for his axe. The man’s hand was a gory mess. Blood was spilling out of his glove and pooling on the floor, as Barristan’s earlier cut must have pierced its mark on Greyjoy’s wrist. Still, he was strong enough to free the axe from what was remained of Selmy’s shield. The squid-lord shouted a command at his man, who pushed Barristan away and turned to face the blood-soaked captain.

 

Victarion did not hesitate to bury the back edge of his axe into his own soldier’s chest at the insult of unsolicited aid. Both of them sunk down, one from the fatal blow and the other from blinding pain and loss of blood.

 

The squid-lord spoke to Ser Greybeard.

 

The scribe relayed the words, “Master Skahaz, the Greyjoy says, ‘Throw my body to the sea, you white-caped bastard.’”

 

Selmy touched the tip of his sword to Victarion’s collar, just inside his armor. Barristan fell to his knees, pulling his sword down with him. The steel pierced through the pirate captain’s body, all the way to its handguard.

 

Greyjoy collapsed without another word. His men watched on, in motionless horror.

 

 _The squids!_ Skahaz remembered.

 

 He spun around and sent a runner to the entrance of the pyramid. _Let those cockless eunuchs be waiting outside,_ he hoped. _Let them have the sense to follow the men I sent._

 

Just as the men from across the sea came back into their wits, a dozen Brazen Beasts came rushing into the hall with a quarter-legion of Unsullied at their backs.

 

_It’s over._

 

The squid-men shouted at Barristan and the Shavepate, and at the Unsullied. Skahaz didn’t understand their words, nor did he care to listen to what they might say.

 

“My Beasts!” he yelled. “Carry Ser Knight to the queen’s chambers.”

 

The Shavepate looked to the finest slave-soldiers in the world and commanded, “Unsullied! Form ranks!”

 

Skahaz mo Kandaq - a full-blooded Meereenese from an ancient, slave-trading family who had forsaken all that history to back a child-queen - took a long moment to observe the foreign men who’d saved his city from the Sons of the Harpy. The squid-men had disposed of all the Harpy’s supporters from among the families of the Great Masters. These fearless warriors had sacrificed two out of every three among them in the fighting to rescue Meereen from the traitorous Sons of the Harpy, to the benefit of all the shavepates and freedmen, and to win the favor of the Shavepate’s lost queen.

 

_A threat. A leaderless, savage army within the city walls._

 

“Unsullied!” Skahaz mo Kandaq repeated. “Kill the squid-men!”

 

They lowered their spears in a fluid and unified motion, forming a three-tiered fence of iron-tipped points. In perfect step with each other, they marched across the cavernous room.

 

The pirates from the Sunset Kingdoms tried to defend themselves. First by throwing knives and hand-axes, but they hit only the bronze shields of the Unsullied. Then, some charged. They were impaled on the spears before getting within a sword-length of the eunuch warriors. The last ones tried to fight their way closer, swatting at the spears with their swords. None succeeded.

 

After the Shavepate watched the eunuchs make certain that they did not leave a single enemy breathing, he sent message-runners to the pyramids of Loraq and Ghazeen and to the Temple of the Green Grace. The young Brazen Beasts were to tell Skahaz’s captains and the Unsullied at all three locations to dispatch with the squid-men, if they hadn’t already.

 

* * *

 

Blood and stench saturated the throne room of the Great Pyramid. The Shavepate stood in the center, right beside where the queen’s knight had executed the squid-lord. A freed slave, some girl of ten, mopped up the blood around him with a rag-cloth and a bucket.

 

Meanwhile, he listened to the reports of his serjeants and Greyworm, the Unsullied commander. One Brazen Beast recounted the battle he oversaw, “We didn’t have to assault the pyramid at all. When they saw the ranks of eunuchs, they charged out, drunk and screaming in their foreign language. It was chaos and madness.”

 

From his eunuchs, Grey Worm could confirm that the other two fights went likewise.

 

“Fools,” Skahaz said aloud. “The savages from the Sunset Seas are just as inutile and stupid as the savages from the Dothraki Sea. Fortune smiles on us.”

 

He ordered the night patrols of Brazen Beasts, freedmen soldiers, and Unsullied doubled, and the curfew to be continued until he said differently.

 

Lastly, Skahaz mo Kandaq commanded Grey Worm and his Unsullied captains, “Meet me in this throne room one hour after tomorrow’s dawn. That is, if you wish to lend your thoughts on how the structures and the rule of law are going to be rebuilt in Meereen.” He also told his Brazen Beast runners to bring the same invitation to Symon Stripeback of the Free Brothers, Marselen of the Mother’s Men, to either the Widower or Jokin of the Stormcrows, and to the Stalwart Shields.

 

After he sent them all on their way, Missandei the scribe-girl came up to the Shavepate.

 

“This one,” she began, “humbly wishes for a word, Master Kandaq.”

 

He nodded to her.

 

“Ser Barristan is not well. This one used a hot brand to close the clean wound on Ser Knight’s one arm, but the other begins to mortify. I sent for beetles to clean it and eat away the bad skin. But. . .”

 

She wasn’t strong enough, and the girl’s stern expression broke.

 

The Shavepate conceded to send someone to see if any of the Blue Graces had survived the squid-men’s occupation of the Temple of the Graces. “If they left none alive, I’ll find a practitioner of the healing arts - a good one, who has seen to many battle wounds.”

 

He also told the child, “You are wise to fear what will happen if Ser Greybeard dies. Meereen may again see a rain of blood and death.”

 

His duties for the day finally at an end, Skahaz mo Kandaq went looking for something to eat.

 

Before the Shavepate could make his way into the kitchens, one of his Brazen Beasts came bursting into the throne room. The young man had discarded his bronze mask and had neither his shortsword nor his spear in hand. He sprinted over to Skahaz and threw himself at his commander’s feet.

 

“Master,” he struggled to say, out of breath.

 

Two Unsullied came charging in behind him.

 

“Master Skahaz,” the young Beast managed. “It is. . . green dragon. . . priest. . . in black. . . dark woman, master. It was. . . _dark woman_. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Jon chapters are coming along (slowly, but surely). 
> 
> I was planning on posting this as Chapter 47 or 48, but I figured that you've all been patient enough with my recent chapters. _And,_ that I shouldn't make you wait any longer for this fic to keep going than you have to.
> 
> Comments and questions are welcome, I always like reading what you're thinking of the story!


	46. Jon - Executions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know its been a while since the last chapter. Here is my attempt to make up for it: A double-length Jon chapter.

Jon let all that he was trying so hard to restrain run wild. Rather than bring him relief, the burning anger only festered and grew. Before he realized what was happening, he felt his rear legs spring his body forward.

 

Viserion pounced into a bounding leap, and with only two strides, she took flight.

 

_Where are you going?_

 

Sharing her eyes, Jon saw immediately where she was aiming her dash through the air.

 

He tried to shout to her. _No! Viserion, do not!_

 

She could feel his anger and it overran all other influence Jon held over her.

 

The dragon caught the edge of the eastern keep’s roof with the claws on her wings. She hung from those claws, her body pressing against the side of the tower. Viserion arched her neck to see in a window on the highest story. Fire exploded from her shriek and burst in the glass. The dragon craned her neck and thrust her head inside. She snapped at the first Frey she saw, but the prey scurried away. Sweeping her horn-crested head, more of them fled to the far wall.

 

One was slower than the rest. It limped and began to fall. Before the prey landed on the floor, Viserion caught it in her mouth. Her teeth gashed into the torso of the animal, and she threw her head violently. Amidst screams, she dragged the mangled body out of the window.

 

Viserion pulled herself onto the roof of the keep, where she roasted her kill and devoured it.

 

* * *

 

Jon awoke to someone pounding on the door.

 

“I’m awake!” he shouted. Jon wiped a clammy sweat from his forehead and swung his feet off the edge of the bed.

 

The knocking didn’t stop until he opened the door.

 

“Ser!” said the man-at-arms. “Your dragon’s gone mad! It’s killing Freys.”

 

_What is so mad about killing Freys?_

 

“I’ll see to Viserion,” Jon told the man and ran past him.

 

Out in the courtyard, he could see the white-scaled dragon atop a tower. _How early is it? The sun is only beginning its ascent into the sky._ Jon knew that Viserion was eating the man she’d caught.

 

Ser Andar Royce came over to him and said, “Some of the men thought to loose a barrage of arrows at the she-dragon. I stopped them for now. But Jon, you need control her. What if she decides to burn every one of us?”

 

“That’d put a morbid ending on this rescue of yours!” japed Ser Kyle Condon from several paces away. The former master-at-arms of Castle Cerwyn was staring up at Viserion, just like most of the castle.

 

“I’ll be more diligent,” answered Jon. “Viserion knows full well that we are to execute the Freys today. Most like, she merely wished to break her fast before the meat was wasted.”

 

“How would the dragon know that?” asked Andar.

 

Jon wasn’t sure of an explanation. Doing his best to put conviction into his voice, Ser Jon told them, “She was as much a part of the battle as any of us, ser. Viserion probably thinks it odd that we have yet to kill them, as it stands.”

 

“You’d best command her to return to the top of the Water Tower, before my lord father rises this morning, Jon.”

 

He walked over to the base of the Freys’ tower and yelled up at the dragon. Viserion complied and flew to the battlements overlooking the bridge. However, she ignored Jon’s command to leave her Frey meal, taking her kill with her.

 

* * *

 

“Is that justice my lord?!”

 

In the audience hall of the eastern keep, Bronze Yohn was being subjected to the indignation of Ser Raymund Frey. Apparently, it had been Lame Lothar who fell victim to the she-dragon.

 

“I swear to you,” said Lord Yohn, “the dragon was given no encouragement to attack the quarters in which your brother and other Freys had been confined, ser. A dragon is a wild thing, but I can only be so upset at it, for Lothar Frey faced death today, nonetheless.”

 

“Is that what you mean to do to my sons and grandsons, Royce? Are you mad?” asked Lord Walder Frey. “Heh, heh, I recall a time when they called another dragon, ‘ _Mad_.’ Even a mutton-headed, lackwit like you will remember what happened to him.”

 

“Aerys was stabbed in the back by a Lannister,” stated Ser Damon Shett. “You’ve no need to remind us about the type of men House Frey allied itself with.”

 

“Heh, heh,” the weasel-faced lord laughed through his nose. “You’re the sorry lot that follows some doxy who spread her legs to make herself one of them. Bastard,” he directed to Jon, “how is that sister-whore of yours?”

 

“Best we get on with this,” said Bronze Yohn.

 

Jon looked over to see Royce staring at him and nodded back. _I’ll take my revenge on Walder Frey soon enough. I refuse to come apart at his slurs._

 

“Get on with what?” asked Frey. “Do you still plan to get Edmure Tully killed?”

 

Jon got to his feet and glared over at the wrinkled and grey lord. “The Lannisters will not dare harm him, once they hear of the fate of House Frey.”

 

“And what fate will that be, bastard?”

 

“Your line is at an end, Lord Frey.” Jon inclined his head to Andar Royce. “Ser, please begin.”

 

Ser Andar walked to the center of the room. He announced, “Firstly, all of the names I announce will step forward. When I am finished, you will follow Ser Damon out of the keep.”

 

“Lady Janyce Hunter,” called Andar. “Gather your daughter, Walda the Heiress.”

 

Tentatively, the woman stepped forward with the scared girl in her arms. Ser Damon looked as chivalrous as a knight could be. He held out a hand for them and led both across the floor.

 

“Lady Mylenda Caron and your daughter, Perra Frey,” Andar said. “You are next.”

 

He called, “Lady Deana Hardyng and your daughter, Fair Walda.”

 

“What about my sons?” worried Deana. “What about my Sweet Steffon and my Bryan?”

 

_Steffon is one-and-twenty, a man grown. Bryan is but a squire and a boy. Death for the elder and the Wall for the younger._

 

“Ser Andar will announce them in turn,” said Lord Yohn. He signaled for men-at-arms to escort Fair Walda and her Hardyng mother to the Knight of Gull Tower. “Gently,” reminded Bronze Yohn.

 

Andar continued, “White Walda Frey, Zia Frey, Kyra Frey, Lythene Frey, Alyx Frey, Serra and Sarra Frey, Cersei Frey. . .” Royce gasped when he saw the twin maidens, Serra and Sarra, step out from the rest.

 

A maid of four-and-ten, Sarra Frey was quite plain, neither homely nor especially fair. However, she was far easier to look upon than her twin. Bandages covered more than half of Serra Frey’s face. Starting from her nose, the bindings ran over her right eye and ear, around to the rear of her scalp. The strip of red skin between her remaining eye and the bandages made clear that she’d been burned in Yohn and Jon's assault on the Crossing. The wrappings followed down the side of her neck and beneath the collar of her dress. Jon wondered how much more of her skin had been touched by Viserion’s flames.

_By my flames._

 

It would have been useless to try to conceal wounds that covered so much of her face, but Serra looked as if she wished she could.

 

_Children . . . in their beds. . ._

 

Andar Royce did his best to compose himself and continue on. “Tysane, Walda, Emberlei, Leana, and Merry Frey. Tyta the Maid, Deaf Della, Arwyn Frey, Shirei Frey. . .”

 

Shirei, a girl of seven, hobbled across the floor. Her sister, Arwyn, was a woman of age with Jon, and she aided the young girl. One of Shirei Frey’s legs was wrapped and splinted, to prevent it from bending while the skin scabbed over and healed. The elder of the pair looked at Jon and spat on the floor. “A monster,” Arwyn Frey whispered to her little sister, but loud enough for others to hear. “A _freak.”_

 

He couldn’t bring himself to look either Arwyn or Shirei in the eye.

 

“Her bedmate,” Arwyn said with no pretense of secrecy. “Her bedmate was not so lucky as this. Mellara is dead. She’s dead, you . . . you _bastard.”_

 

No one said a word as they waited for the struggling child to cross the floor. The exertion obviously pained her.

 

 _Children,_ Jon recalled. _Children. . . burning in their home, in their beds. . ._

 

“Jeyne Rivers,” Royce called out. “Mellara Riv-” Andar stopped, catching himself. He quickly jumped to, “Alys Frey, Jyanna Frey, and both Walda Rivers.”

 

The heir to Runestone then stated, “As for the boys I am about to list, the ones who are too young to be separated from their mothers, they will follow into service for the Faith. Their mothers will foreswear the rights of their sons to leave that service.”

 

Though politely worded, Jon could hear the threat that Andar left unsaid. _They will swear their children’s loyalty or face the wrath of a dragon._

 

Royce said the names of Osmund Frey; five-year-old twins, Dickon and Mathis Frey; and Ser Raymund’s newborn twins, Jaime and Tywin.

 

“Next, Marianne Vance. Your relation to House Frey is through your Frey mother and thus you do not carry the accursed name. However, you were present for the murder of King Robb Stark and his bannermen. Gather your three-year-old brother, Patrek Vance, and go with Ser Damon.”

 

Only two children below a squire’s age remained. As if hoping to avoid notice, the boy and girl cowered against the wall. Lymond Goodbrook stepped forward. He looked at the pair on the periphery, then at Lord Royce in the center of the hall. Goodbrook wondered aloud, “And what am I to do, my lord?” Before continuing, he paced across the room. The coupled sound of the heel-then-toe of his boots hitting the stone floor built tension for all who awaited his words.

 

“My lords,” said Lymond. “I became Lord of Goodbrook as a boy of eight. My father died fighting in the War of the- in _Robert’s Rebellion_. He died. As did all, save one, of his brothers. Garse Goodbrook was the only one of them too young to go to war.

 

“And now my last uncle. . . he too is dead,” Lord Lymond said with both sorrow and bitterness. “Ser Garse died during the Red Wedding. He died fighting on the side of the _Freys._ What shall I decide to do with his son and daughter?

 

“Having married Walder Frey’s grand-daughter, Kyra, I have to believe that Garse expected to usurp my lands. I can think of no other reason he would do nothing to warn me of the murders his good-family planned. My uncle discarded the laws of gods and men in his avarice. He forgot his duty to the son of his brother. Does that mean that any duty remains for me in regards to _his_ son?”

 

Lord Lymond stared at his young cousins.

 

“My lord, what do you wish to do?” asked Bronze Yohn.

 

“‘What do I _wish_ to do?’ or ‘What _will_ I do?’” he returned. “Walder,” Lymond addressed the boy, “come here and bring your sister.”

 

After some hesitation, they did as they were instructed.

 

Goodbrook asked, “Do you know why your father died?”

 

The girl stood motionless, but her older brother shook his head.

 

“He chose to side with an evil man, because he wanted to steal our House’s castle. Your father died while helping in the murders of his guests and friends in the pavilions during the Red Wedding. Should I expect the same from you, when you are grown?”

 

“No, my lord,” said the boy. He nudged his sister, and she echoed, “No, my lord.”

 

“You both must know,” said the elder cousin, “I did not slay your father. But, had he survived, I would have seen him executed for his crimes. You are owed no vengeance for his death. It was just. Will you swear to do better than he, for the legacy of House Goodbrook?”

 

“We do,” pledged Walder Goodbrook.

 

“Good. I’ll see that you are taken to your rightful home. If you mind your aunts, you will be well cared for.”

 

“Mum?” wondered little Jeyne Goodbrook, her eyes welling up. “Mum?”

 

Lord Lymond sighed. “We shall speak of her outside. Follow me.”

 

Andar called out the names of women who were Freys by marriage, “Lady Joyeuse Erenford, Leonella Lefford, Sallei Paege, Sylwa Paege, Beony Beesbury, Bellena Hawick, and Zhoe Blanetree.”

 

In the doorway, Damon Shett gathered the women and girls who were Freys by blood or marriage and the few boys of House Frey below a squire’s age. Then, he and his charges left the hall.

 

Lord Walder sneered at Bronze Yohn. “Heh, heh, what do you intend to do with so many women, Royce? Don’t you have a wife of your own? Or did the shrew up an’ die on you?”

 

Yohn clinched his fist, but held his temper. He replied, “They will be treated kindly, my lord. I will find them all placement in septries and do my best to see that mothers and daughters are not separated in their service to the Seven.”

 

“Heh, does that mean you intend for me to join the Most Devout? Mayhaps they’ll name me the next High Septon.”

 

Jon hated how unfazed the thorny, old man still was. _Does he not understand what will happen to him and his kin? Does he not care?_

 

Andar next rattled off the names of the boys too young to bear responsibility for the murders, but old enough to be separated from their mothers, “Waltyr Frey, Ronel Rivers, Walder Vance, Bryan Frey, Robert Frey, and Jonos Frey. You will follow Mallador Woolfield and do as he commands.”

 

“Each of you,” Andar said to the boys, “will be joining the Night’s Watch.”

 

They began to shout their discontent, but Yohn was quick to organize his men to have them escorted from the hall.

 

The Freys who remained were all men grown. Ser Andar called out, “Ser Jammos Frey.”

 

Before Andar Royce could name the man to the knight’s left, the next Frey announced himself, “Ser Whalen of House Frey.”

 

After him, “Ser Raymund Frey.”

 

“Walder Rivers.”

 

They gave their names in turn: Perwyn Frey, Olyvar Frey, Martyn Rivers, Ryger Rivers, Walton Frey, Alesander Frey, Lord Lucias Vypren, Ser Damon Vypren, Steffon Frey, and Ser Dafyn Vance.

 

Andar concluded the naming by stating, “And. . . Lord Walder Frey, head of House Frey.”

 

The old man asked, “What are your plans for me, Royce?”

 

Jon put forth the answer, “Death.”

 

The men started to shout. Alesander Frey yelled that he wasn’t present for the Red Wedding. Lord Vypren insisted that he and his son were not Freys.

 

To Vypren, Lord Umber yelled back, “You were there, you bloody sod! You helped to murder your king!”

 

One voice stood out from the rest. Jon heard it say, “My brother was loyal! He wasn’t there! I led him from the castle. Take my life, my lords, but spare his! Spare my brother!”

 

After taking several seconds to scan the hall, Jon saw which of them said it: _Perwyn Frey._

 

The guardsmen of the Vale indiscriminately battered the Freys into silence. Once the hall was quiet, Jon voiced his question, “Perwyn Frey, what did you mean about your brother?”

 

The knight who came forth was taller than most Freys, standing just below six feet. He was lean and sharp-featured. He said, “Olyvar, my lord. He was not at the Red Wedding. On my lord father’s command, I took him from the Crossing so he would not interfere.”

 

“Which of you is Olyvar?” Jon asked.

 

The Frey who stepped forward was two years older than Jon, but also appeared younger in demeanor and spirit than his face suggested. “I squired for the Young Wolf. For King Robb Stark, my lords.”

 

The Greatjon asked, “What would that mean to us, _Frey_?”

 

“I was at his side in the Whispering Wood. I would have remained with him even after he married Lady Jeyne. . . if not for the insistence of my half-brothers.”

 

Perwyn said, “So you see, my lords? Olyvar is but a boy. He did nothing to deserve the fate that awaits the rest of us.”

 

Some of the other Freys shouted about not deserving executions either.

 

“You each knew what Father planned!” Perwyn snapped. After turning away from his kin, he added, “As did I, my lords. Olyvar, though, did not.”

 

Unsure about whether to believe this Frey knight or what to do, Ser Jon looked to Lord Royce.

 

“No, my lords,” said Olyvar Frey. “I can speak for myself. I was the Young Wolf’s squire. Had I been born of any other House, I’d be dead now. That I was spared from my lord father’s murdering gives me little help when I try to sleep. A squire’s duty is to ready his knight for battle and to fight by his side. If I’d been allowed to do my duty, I would be dead. I have no wish to give further insult to my king. Should you ask for it, I will yield my life to you.”

 

Perwyn yelled, “No, Olyvar!”

 

Bronze Yohn said to Lord Umber, “He is a squire, not yet a knight. We intend to send on his half-brothers, cousins, and nephews to the Wall to act as pages and squires. What harm is one more?”

 

The Greatjon stared for a moment, then waved for Olyvar to leave the hall. The young man did so, walking after Woolfield.

 

_But the rest of you. . ._

 

Jon had sharpened his sword for the better part of the previous night. Even after the edge was ready, he continued polishing it. He had nothing else with which to occupy his mind. _Nothing else I’d care to think about._

 

Greatjon Umber stood up and bellowed, “They’ve had their trial, Yohn. We culled the women and the weasel-faced whelps. All that is left for _these_ Freys is our justice.”

 

“You men,” said Andar, “follow me into the yard.”

 

“No,” Ser Jon Whitewolf corrected. “Here will do for them.” _Frey saw fit to murder Robb beneath his roof, I see no reason to afford him the curtsey of executing him in the courtyard. No matter that the floor of his audience hall looks clean, it is already sullied by the stain of blood._

 

Bronze Yohn sent his squire to find something that would serve as a headsman’s block. Jon was surprised that Lord Royce didn’t push for a hanging, as he figured most southron lords would have.

 

Several minutes later, two squires dragged in a wide, wooden post for splitting firewood.

 

Jon had not the first idea regarding how to begin. Lord Umber seemed to sense this and stepped forward. He stated, “Bolton men slayed my son. My lust for vengeance will not end until I see them dead. Though on this day, I mean to take my first taste of justice.”

 

Walder Frey grinned a toothless and ugly smile. “Being half-deaf, at least I’ll be spared the words of a fat-headed son of a cunt. Heh, heh. Your dead son was a big, cockless arse-boy. I’m certain he’s squealing all the while he is being buggered through the seven hells.”

 

Lord Umber roared and yanked free his sword. In a blind rage, he swung wildly. Jon and Andar ran up behind him and tried to gain a hold on his arms. Ser Jon’s thoughts went to the Umber sigil, a roaring giant breaking free of his chains.

 

Ducking a back-swing, Andar looped an arm under the Greatjon’s shoulder. Ser Jon gripped Umber’s jerkin by the collar and held him back as best he could. Two Runestone knights joined them in restraining Lord Umber. If he hadn’t been weakened by months in a dungeon, subduing Umber might have required twice the number of men. With his sword arm pinned by Andar, the Greatjon took hold of the blade with his left hand and thrashed. With no more Freys within reach, he flung it. The sword struck someone hilt-first and fell to the stone floor.

 

Lord Umber fought to catch his breath. With the giant Northman calming down, Jon, Andar, and the two sworn swords released him. They stepped back and caught sight of the damage the Greatjon had done.

 

Lord Frey’s bastard son, Ryger Rivers, lay dead with his chest split open.

 

Ser Raymund Frey was next to him. Umber had cut off Raymund’s arm above the elbow. He screamed at his missing limb. Jon’s first instinct was to call for a maester.  But, Ser Jon soon grasped how misplaced such sentiment was. _These men deserve their deaths, and their father provoked Lord Umber. Ryger Rivers’ only misfortune is dying first among his kin._

 

One of Ser Raymund’s brothers propped him up while another attempted to stem the flow of blood. “He needs aid!”

 

Jon stared at the pleading man, then countered, “He needs to be finished, ser.”

 

“I’ll see to that,” said Umber. He looked at Lord Walder. “You see what your mouth earned you, Frey?”

 

The decrepit man offered no response, but neither did he appear dismayed.

 

“Hand me my sword,” Lord Jon ordered.

 

The blade had come to rest at the feet of Ser Damon Vypren, a Frey by his mother’s side. He picked up it up, as he was bid. Looking at the weapon, he said, “This isn’t _your_ sword, my lord. It belongs to Merritt.”

 

“Merritt Mutton-head is dead and hadn’t swung it in years,” said Walder Rivers, the eldest of Lord Frey’s bastards.

 

Bronze Yohn told him, “It makes no matter, ser. Hand it over.”

 

Vypren hesitated, then he turned it in his hands. He gripped the hilt and raised the blade.

 

“Don’t act rashly,” advised Lord Royce.

 

Still kneeling beside the weeping Ser Raymund, Jammos Frey said, “Why shouldn’t he? You’ve said you are going to murder us all.”

 

Yohn Royce replied, “An execution is not the same as a murder.”

 

Glaring at the young knight, Greatjon Umber said to Vypren, “Best you give it here, boy.”

 

“Stay back!” shouted Damon Vypren. With both hands, he waved the sword back and forth to keep Lord Umber at a distance.

 

Having returned without his young cousins, Lymond Goodbrook stepped between the Greatjon and Vypren. He said, “Ser Vypren, you betrayed your liege lord and your king, when you and your father tossed your lot in with the scum of the Riverlands. If you refuse to yield Lord Umber’s sword, I shall take it from your corpse.”

 

He drew his sword and stepped closer to Ser Damon Vypren. The younger Riverlander seemed almost trembling, while Lymond converged.

 

“Goodbrook’s wearing mail! My son’s not armored!” Lord Lucias Vypren shouted. “This is no fair contest, my lords!”

 

“More fair than this castle has seen of late,” Lymond said.

 

“Kill him!” demanded Lord Walder of his grandson.

 

Obediently, Vypren jabbed at Goodbrook, who deflected the strike with ease. Damon held his sword in both hands. Lymond used only his right hand. He held up his left, ready to block or strike with his bare palm.

 

Ser Damon attempted another stab, and Lord Lymond blocked his foe’s sword at the crossguard. With the weapons pinned together, Goodbrook stepped in to gain leverage. As Vypren tried to raise his steel, Lord Lymond seized Damon’s right wrist with his free hand.

 

Damon Vypren shifted his weapon from both hands to only his left.

 

Goodbrook easily slapped Ser Damon’s sword away with one swat of his blade. He held Vypren’s wrist high above the younger man’s head.

 

Precise and methodic, Goodbrook slid his steel into his enemy’s abdomen. As he pushed through flesh and bone, he met his foe, chest to chest. Lymond Goodbrook whispered something into Vypren’s ear, before he twisted his sword, and Ser Damon collapsed.

 

The dead knight’s father gasped. He dove to the young man’s side. Lord Lucias clutched his son’s body in his arms. “Curse you, you bloody coward! He wasn’t armored!” the man shouted. “He wasn’t armored. . .” Lucias Vypren muttered those three words over and again as he held tight to his son.

 

Lymond bent over and picked up the fallen sword. He handed it to the Lord of Last Hearth. Looking up at Jon Umber’s face, Goodbrook answered, “Lord Vypren, you are not the first to see your son and heir die within the Twins. I pray you remember that when you stand before the Father.”

 

Lord Yohn pushed for a resumption of order. “We must needs attend to Ser Raymund.”

 

“I’ll _attend_ to him,” volunteered the Greatjon.

 

Ser Jon the Whitewolf had difficulty remembering Ser Raymund’s role in his father’s plot. _What was said of him at the trial. . ._

 

After a moment, Jon connected the name with Umber’s accusation from the previous day.

 

_Lady Stark._

 

“No,” said the bastard knight. “Bring him to block, my lord. I’ll do for him.”

 

“You?” questioned one of the Freys.

 

“Aye, me.” _I owe her this much. No matter her feelings toward me, I owe her my thanks for sending me to the Blackfish. But more important than that, this task is my duty and mine alone._

 

For all to hear, Jon said, “The duty of finding justice for Lady Stark falls first to her lord husband, then to her son.”

 

With a sneer, Jammos Frey interrupted, “You are no son of hers, bastard.”

 

Lord Walder Frey added, “Mayhaps you suggest we wait for one of them? Heh, heh.”

 

“No,” Jon refuted with ice in his voice. “In their deaths, the duty of my father and my elder brother falls to me. Again I say, bring the man here.”

 

Ser Raymund Frey had been reduced to a sniveling retch. Tears and snot flowed from his face as rapidly as blood ran from his stump of an arm. Greatjon Umber shoved the man’s head atop the wooden block. He turned Raymund so the prisoner could look up at Ser Jon and pressed Frey’s face against the chopping surface with the heel of his boot.

 

Jon pulled free his sword, and Lord Umber withdrew. “Have you any last words?”

 

Raymund Frey muttered something incomprehensible. Jon had little interest in what he might have meant.

 

“By the old gods and the new, I claim justice for Lady Catelyn Stark, wife to Lord Eddard Stark, niece to Ser Brynden Tully, sister to Lord Edmure, and mother to King Robb, Queen Sansa, Lady Arya, and Lords Brandon and Rickon.”

 

Just before he brought his shining steel down upon this Frey, Jon whispered, “May your gods judge you justly.”

 

The longsword sheered cleanly through skin, muscle, and spine. It made a dull sound as it sunk four inches into the makeshift headsman’s block. Jon crouched motionlessly for a moment. He watched a red stream run over his blade and down the side of the wood, which might have once been a tree stump. As Jon had yet to pull back his sword, the body looked little different than it had a moment earlier. Raymund’s face, however, had frozen with a look of vacant surprise.

 

Jon Umber put the sole of his boot on top of the block. His heel rested in the flowing blood and the toe of the boot pushed against the left temple of Raymund Frey’s corpse. The Greatjon added his hand to the hilt of Jon’s longsword and jerked it loose. As the blade came free, the lifeless head rolled off the stump.

 

“Here, boy,” said Umber, pushing the weapon back into Jon’s grip. “T’was a fine cut.”

 

Though his mind knew the truth, that this was a just act, Jon felt conflicted deep in his gut. Taking this pitiful man’s life somehow felt different than when Jon had buried his sword in a guardsman in the very same audience hall, during the attack on the Twins.

 

_This feels different than even taking the head of Littlefinger._

 

In the snowy courtyard, high up in the Vale, Jon had Ser Brynden by his side. The grey-haired knight had urged his former squire to make an end of Baelish’s life. When added to his own conviction regarding Littlefinger’s sentence, the agreement of the Blackfish made Jon beyond certain of his righteousness.

 

_Raymund Frey killed Lady Stark, you fool. Of course you did right in separating his head from his shoulders._

 

Greatjon Umber claimed the right to execute the next of the Freys. Ser Jammos Frey followed his half-brother in the selection. He seemed a beaten man, as Lord Yohn’s men forced him to the block. Lord Umber followed Northern custom and asked Jammos if he had anything to say before his execution. When the thirteenth son of Walder Frey hesitated, Umber did not bother to wait for him to gather his thoughts.

 

The force of the Greatjon’s swing was enough to bounce the heavy block off the stone floor. With decidedly little ceremony, they moved onto the next Frey.

 

With most of Lord Walder’s elder sons either in the North or dead, Ser Andar scanned down his ledger of Freys, “After Ser Jammos Frey. . . Ser Whalen, the fourteenth son of Walder Frey.”

 

As Valemen took hold of him, Whalen Frey insisted, “All I did was drink! My lords! All I did was drink!” When they forced him to kneel, he pleaded, “I was passed out in my wine-sleep! How can you kill a man for that?! For sleeping off a belly-full of wine!”

 

Lord Umber stood over him. However, it was Ser Jon who answered his cries. He said, “You knew what your father meant to do, ser. It was your duty to warn your king.”

 

Jon looked out across the vaulted hall. Much like Riverrun, the Twins was defined by its rushing waters. _In a battle, this pair of castles would not be easily laid low. Besieging them would require an army on both sides of the river. And, most like, a chain of boats to prevent re-supply via the river._ Jon thought that, had Walder Frey been a better man, the Crossing could have made for an important and strategic location for Robb’s goal of securing the Riverlands.

 

_But Frey chose different. He opted for this path, and thus my brother is dead. And soon, so too will he be._

 

“In the name of Queen Sansa Stark,” Jon declared. “You, Ser Whalen of House Frey, are condemned to death. Have you any last words?”

 

Rather than utter any wisdom to be relayed to his two children or a prayer to his gods, Whalen said only, “I was asleep . . . wine-sick, my lords. . .”

 

Lord Umber took the man’s head as easily as he’d taken that of his brother.

 

“The fifteenth son of Lord Frey,” announced Andar Royce. “Ser Perwyn.”

 

The thin knight stepped forward. When the guards closed in on either side of him, in order to take hold of his arms, Ser Perwyn said, “You’ll have no need of these men, my lords.”

 

Seeing the knight’s conviction, Bronze Yohn nodded, and his men withdrew.

 

“I would hear your words,” Jon told him, “should you have anything you’d wish to declare.”

 

He took a deep breath, then spoke, “I ask a number of small concessions and courtesies, that I might find myself escorted by the Stranger without so much weighing on my mind.”

 

Ser Jon wasn’t sure how to respond to this man, so he glanced at Yohn. The Lord of Runestone said, “We shall hear your requests and grant them as we see fit, ser.”

 

Perwyn nodded and proceeded to say, “I am the eldest child of my mother, born Lady Bethany of House Rosby. When the Citadel saw fit to assign my bastard-born half-brother, Melwys Rivers - Maester Melwys - to Lord Gyles Rosby, my lord father sent me to serve as a page for my mother’s kin. Lord Gyles died without siring an heir. He had neither sister nor brother to birth a nephew who might continue his House.

 

“My late mother was cousin to Lord Gyles. As such, more Rosby blood flows within the veins of my full-siblings and I than, mayhaps, anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms.” Perwyn turned to face Bronze Yohn. He said, “My lord, you showed wisdom and mercy in sparing my brother, Olyvar. Mayhaps, you might find it lawful to spare him an exile to the Night’s Watch.”

 

“What’s this you’re getting on about, _Frey?_ ” demanded Lord Umber.

 

“My lord,” said Perwyn. “On your march to King’s Landing, no doubt you’ll pass through Rosby lands.”

 

Lymond Goodbrook interjected, “And you mean to suggest that we should name your brother Lord of Rosby when we take the Crownlands? Is this the ‘small courtesy’ of which you spoke?”

 

Before anyone else could think of further sympathy for the nineteen-year-old squire, Lord Umber stated, “No. Be thankful he will be allowed to take the black. Is that all?”

 

“Not as yet,” replied Perwyn. “Though, let me repeat my thanks for Olyvar’s life, my lords.” Yohn Royce acknowledged him with a nod, and Perwyn resumed, “As a maester is stripped of his House when he dons his chain-”

 

“We’ve no interest in bothering the bastard-Frey in Rosby,” said the Greatjon, annoyed. “Is that the whole of it?”

 

“You have my thanks, my Lord of Umber. But, the maester over whom I fret is my brother, Willamen. He serves in the Vale, my lords. I see no Hunter men among you, yet still I ask that you not visit any anger towards my father upon Maester Willamen.”

 

“As a maester gives up the House of his birth,” said Yohn, “we shall not condemn this Willamen with the rest of House Frey.” He looked to Umber. “Yes, my lord?”

 

Greatjon huffed a curt “aye.”

 

Perwyn questioned, “My lords, what of my sister?”

 

“Which sister do you mean?” asked Jon.

 

“My only full-sister, ser. I am asking after Lady Roslin Tully.” When the men assembled began to mutter to each other, Ser Perwyn raised his voice, “My lords, my lords! What of Lady Tully? Not a _one_ of her kin has been allowed to speak to her, not since you took the Crossing. She is near on seven moons with child.”

 

Perwyn finished his statement while staring directly at Jon, who broke away from the knight’s eyes. _Have I been so occupied with my anger that I have not thought to even speak with Ser Edmure’s wife? The woman who carries his child?_

 

Lymond Goodbrook said, “Perwyn Frey, your concern for your siblings - at least your _full_ siblings - is admirable. I can swear to you that Lady Roslin is well, as is the babe kicking in her belly. I have been personally overseeing her care.”

  

Perwyn asked for one final concession, “I’d prefer a clean death.” He pointed to the left side of his chest. “A thrust to the heart is no less deadly than taking a man’s head. I’d rather meet my ancestors as a whole man.”

 

It was a simply enough request in Jon’s eyes. He replied, “Of course, ser. Unlace your doublet, lest I miss the proper mark.”

 

Frey did so and walked over to Jon. He looked at the bloody chopping-block, then back at the young man who was to take his life. “Should I. . . ? Sit? Kneel?”

 

“How ever you prefer,” offered Jon.

 

“Standing, I suppose.”

 

Ser Jon the Whitewolf touched Perwyn Frey’s skin. His fingers followed along a rib-bone, until he could feel the pulse of a pumping heart.

 

_A heart whose beating I am about to end. . ._

 

Jon pointed his sword at Perwyn’s chest, resting the tip on a fingernail of his guide-hand.

 

“Do you have anything else you wish to say, Ser Perwyn of House Frey?”

 

“I’ve said all I care to, Ser Jon. My life might be ending, but my younger brothers and sister will live on. That is as much contentment as I could hope for. It is no easy thing to choose between your family and your king, Ser Jon. May the Mother forgive me, should the Father judge me lacking.”

 

Jon stood in silence, waiting. He wanted to be sure that Perwyn did not have anything more to say before taking from him the chance to ever utter another word.

 

When he heard nothing, Jon began his stab. He felt his feet push against the stone floor, and the muscles in his legs tensed. That tension continued up Jon’s back and into his shoulder. His arm straightened and his hand felt like it was just following the movement of the rest of his body.

 

His dragon-forged longsword slipped cleanly through flesh and between bones. _A duller blade may have only pushed Perwyn backwards,_ thought Jon.

 

He expected Perwyn Frey to collapse the moment the steel entered his chest. Instead, Jon heard a breathless gasp escape Perwyn’s mouth. He looked up from the entry-point of his sword. Ser Perwyn’s eyes went wide and dark. A moment later, Frey’s hands clutched at the blade.

 

_What is happening?_

 

Jon could feel Perwyn’s heart still beating against his hand. The pulsing was so rapid that Jon could barely distinguish between each beat.

 

Blood ran down the length of the sword. _But only from his hands,_ Jon realized. The edges of the blade dug into Perwyn’s frantic hands and red flowed down his forearms, streaming off his bent elbows.

 

Each of his breaths was too brief for wind to enter his lungs. Instead of breathing more deeply, he tried to breathe faster.

 

_The wound, where is the blood?_

 

Jon could feel the skin swelling against his finger, but only a trickle of blood escaped.

 

“Perwyn?” Jon asked, absurdly.

 

The man’s lips darkened to a dull violet. His gaze was vacant, but still pointed into Jon’s eyes.

 

“ _Water. . . I . . ._ ”

 

Perwyn coughed. Against his fingers, Jon felt air escape the wound in Perwyn’s chest. He saw a mouthful of blood and vomit run down Frey's chin. The sight and smell of it startled Jon, and he stepped back. The sword slid from Perwyn’s heart. Blood seemed to overflow the young man’s chest, pouring out of him all at once. A flash of wet spittle left his lips, and then Ser Perwyn Frey collapsed to the stone floor. He scraped at his chest and twitched thrice, before his breathing finally stopped.

 

Greatjon Umber took Jon’s sword. Without a word, he wiped Perwyn’s blood from it with a section of some Frey’s cloak.

 

Guardsmen dragged away the body of Perwyn Frey.

 

Lord Royce signaled for his son to continue. Scanning his rolls, Andar mumbled to himself, “Sixteenth: dead . . . then the maester, and the Wall for the rest.” He looked up and announced, “All other trueborn sons of Walder Frey are absent the Twins. Only bastards and grandsons left. Next in line, Walder Rivers.”

 

The man who stepped forward was regarded as one of the most treacherous of Lord Frey’s progeny. Blazon across his chest was his personal coat of arms: the bridge and towers of House Frey, with the colors reversed and a reverse slash, both of which signaled his bastardy. Rather than cower or show concern for his kin, the knight of some fifty years asked a question of Jon. “Ser Snow,” he began. “How many Freys do you intend to execute for another House’s crime?”

 

“We’ve heard enough of your lies,” bellowed Lord Umber. “The Young Wolf committed no crime against you, bastard.”

 

“You mistake my meaning,” he answered. “Yes, Robb Stark was murdered. And yes, the murder occurred at the Twins during Lord Tully’s wedding. _However_ …” Bastard Walder paused to look at Lords Umber, Royce, and Goodbrook in turn, then back to Ser Jon. “It was not my father or any son of his who murdered Stark. It was Roose Bolton, my lords. You see, Snow, your quarrel is with the Leech Lord, not House Frey.”

 

“You murdered Lady Stark,” Umber shot back, “and my son!”

 

Bastard Walder sneered. “The Umber man-child was killed by Dreadfort soldiers, _Northmen,_ my lord. As for Catelyn Tully, that was the work of Ser Raymund, and you’ve already taken his head. If you are so eager for another execution in return for her death, stitch Raymund’s head back onto his neck and take turns striking it off until your bloodlust is satisfied.”

 

“Do you mean to say that you took no part in the murders?” Jon asked.

 

“I mean to say that you are no better than my half-brother or anyone else. You are angry and aggrieved and seek revenge where you can find it. Do not mistake that for justice, Snow.

 

“Further,” he continued, “if your aim is for _justice_ , as you naively insist, then you must next make your move against Winterfell. . .”

 

_Winterfell._

 

“. . .the seat of Lord Ramsey.”

 

Walder Rivers’ smile was a grim sight. His thin lips pressed together, resembling two slivers of uncooked pork. “If your purpose is to extinguish House Frey, then your effort here will be for naught without venturing north. I have three brothers, a nephew, and others in Winterfell. Best you hurry after them, before more Freys sprout from the bellies of your Northern whores.”

 

Goodbrook said back, “And you would know well what happens when a Frey lays with a whore, wouldn’t you, _bastard?”_

 

Two of Yohn’s knights brought Rivers to the red-stained stump in the center of the hall. Kyle Condon paced over to Ser Jon and Lord Umber. He told them, “Since this one sounds so found of Bolton’s bastard, I ask for the right to avenge my liege lord’s son.” Condon faced Ser Walder Rivers as he said, “Cley Cerwyn inherited his father’s title and my loyalty when Lord Medger fell in battle. The brave boy rode to take back Winterfell, as was his duty to House Stark. The Bastard of Bolton betrayed us all and ambushed men and boys I’d known for a lifetime.”

 

Rivers opened his mouth, but before he could say the first word of what was likely to be a denial, Ser Kyle told him, “Do not attempt to argue against it, not after your gaolers had such merriment in repeating the tale every time they saw fit to afford me a lump of gruel. That betrayal, like so many others, was no doubt organized by Bolton and your kink-backed wretch of a father.”

 

The knights pushed on Rivers’ shoulders, and the man knelt willingly.

 

“The Starks are fond of an old saying,” Condon told him. It was plain to all that the man was holding back any number of emotions. He bit into the corner of his bottom lip, and when he opened his mouth again, a dot of blood ran into his beard. “I heard this saying first from Lord Rickard Stark. He said it to my liege and I, back when were both young men. Lord Stark told us, ‘The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.’

 

“I might not have been the one who first condemned you,” he continued, “but I’m thankful to be the one to swing this sword. Do you have any last words for the ears of gods and men?”

 

“Have you ever seen a snake slither through snow?”

 

Confused, Kyle asked, “Bastard, do you mean for your final words to be some riddle?”

 

Rivers laughed through his nostrils. “No,” he said.

 

Addressing Ser Kyle, Bastard Walder added, “No, you false knight anointed by only heathen gods.” His eyes moved from Condon to Jon, and he snickered again. “Mayhaps I should have directed the query to the _other_ heathen knight. Ser Snow, the same question. Have you an answer?”

 

Though the man was taunting him, Jon had seen too much on this morning to think of a clever retort. He said only, “I haven’t seen a snake in the snow.”

 

“Neither have I,” agreed Bastard Walder. “They infest the bogs just north of here, and yet they seem to die off or bury themselves deep into the mud when winter comes. It makes one wonder about how well scales keep out the cold.”

 

_Viserion._

 

As if his goading was not yet obvious, Rivers said, “I’d like to see how well your dragon does in a blizzard, Jon Snow. I doubt your demon-beast’s fire burns hot enough to braise a roast in such conditions.”

 

Jon could feel the others watching him. Refusing to cow to this man, he returned, “Though I’ve not seen a snake crawl through snow drifts, neither have I encountered any snake that carried a furnace in its chest. Scales need not keep out a chill, when they are fiery to the touch. I won’t have the fortune of seeing you eat your words, for you shall be long dead by then. Thus, I’ll have to content myself with executing your trespassing kinsmen and reclaiming what belongs to House Stark. Ser Kyle?”

 

Condon raised his steel. “By the laws of gods and men, I carry out the sentence of death.”

 

On Kyle Condon’s cut, a gurgling sound escaped the gullet of Bastard Walder. He soiled his breeches and gasped a final, haggard breath, before Ser Kyle ended his life with a second swing.

 

The executions which followed Walder Rivers’ were cold applications of justice. The condemned approached as if dead already. The Greatjon took the head of Lord Lucias Vypren, Ser Kyle did for Steffon Frey, Ser Jon Whitewolf ended the life of Martyn Rivers, Ser Andar Royce hesitantly executed Ser Dafyn Vance - who'd killed a Runestone guardsman during the taking of the Twins, and Mallador Woolfield of the Sheepshead Hills bludgeoned Ser Walton Frey with one blow of a mace. As if taking turns in the sparing yard, Lord Umber cycled back to his turn as executioner. He enforced justice upon Ser Aegon Rivers, and then Ser Kyle stepped forth.

 

“Ser,” said Jon. “If none here object, I wish to be the one to bring Queen Sansa’s justice against Lord Walder Frey.” The former Cerwyn master-at-arms nodded and paced back.

 

“With me, Condon,” the Greatjon told him. Together, the two Northmen lifted Walder Frey from his chair and dropped him onto the headsman’s block.

 

“You took from me that which no justice can give back,” Jon told his brother’s murderer. “For that, I will kill you.”

 

“Even now, I have no lack of sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons,” spat Walder Frey. “They sprout up like new weeds every year. Mayhaps before you can uproot them all, Black Walder or Hosteen or any of the others will bury a blade in your throat. Heh, heh. Get on with it, _bastard_. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”

 

Jon could feel the stone hilt of his longsword against his hands. In the dim, muggy hall, his blade caught the light of a nearby torch. Jon watched the glow bend and break over the fuller, as he turned the sword in his hands. Frey blood, not yet properly cleaned, stained the reflection of yellow fire into a deep and familiar amber-red. . .

 

“As you say, my lord.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and comments about where this fic is going would be greatly appreciated!


	47. Jon - Leaving the Twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small and simple chapter at the Crossing.

 

“Ser Jon!”

 

The Northern knight had only set one foot out of the doorway of his chambers, when he heard the boy call out. The squire sprinted through the hallway of the eastern keep within the Twins and said, “The rookery got a bird back from the Vale.”

 

Jon thanked the eager boy and took the scrolled parchment from him. He carried it into his room to read its contents in privacy. It bore his name, and he broke the blue wax-seal.

 

_Jon,_

_I was elated to receive Lord Yohn’s raven saying that you were victorious and unharmed. Ser Brynden took Riverrun some days before your battle. He writes that all is secure there, for the meanwhile._

_Those were not the only messages, however._

_A wooden box appeared in my room two afternoons ago. It showed no marking of who sent it. The letter therein asks for you and I, by name, to meet Prince Aegon Targaryen at Storm’s End. I don’t know what to make of it. The letter notes that the Golden Company is with him and that, “through our mutual desires, an accord is within reach.”_

_The Gates of the Moon feel so isolated, Jon. I wonder if you’ve heard anything more about the self-styled prince or about the Stormlands. Whoever wrote the message calls this Aegon the “True heir to the Iron Throne”. As best as Randa and I can sort out, he claims to be the very same Aegon who died in King’s Landing during Robert’s Rebellion._

_When you write back, be sure to send more than one raven. The snows in the mountains have gained in force._

_Awaiting your letter,_

_Your sister._

 

Jon recalled that the bald steward from Pentos wanted him to go to Storm’s End as well. _This is no coincidence._ He determined to write to Sansa, telling her of the Pentoshi magister who must be behind the letter she received. _But how would such a man, from across the Narrow Sea, get a catspaw into the Vale? And through the Gates of the Moon, no less._

 

He stepped out into the hallway. “Squire!” Jon hollered, and the boy returned. “Find the Greatjon and ask him to join me and Lord Royce in Bronze Yohn’s chambers.”

 

“ _Great_ Jon?”

 

“Lord Umber. Also, tell him that I am the one who sent you, not Lord Yohn.”

 

* * *

 

Jon Whitewolf, Greatjon Umber, and Ser Andar Royce waited in Bronze Yohn’s quarters for the squire to return with Lord Royce.

 

Ser Jon missed Ghost at moments like this. He was at ease with silence when alone, but in the company of others it felt irksome. Tending to his wolf, whether to pick out burrs from Ghost’s fur or check his paws for thorns or cracks from the cold, distracted him. Leaning against the wall beside the window, Jon pulled out his dagger and checked its edge against his thumbnail. The blade scraped a thin line of white dust from the nail, proving itself sharp. _You went over it with a whetstone just last night. . . right after you cleaned Walder Frey’s blood off your sword._

 

Umber paced across the room. “Boy, you mentioned a letter from the Vale. What’d it say?”

 

Jon began to answer, but Ser Andar stopped him. “If I may, Ser Jon, I’ll ask you to hold off on the telling of this. As I stated before, we should wait for my father. The castle is not so big that the boy will take much longer to find him.”

 

Greatjon scoffed. “Ser Wolf knows that, Royce. It was _his_ doing that the she-dragon burned half the Twins. Mayhaps because of that the bloody squire will only take _half_ the day in finding your father, and old Yohn will at long last get his arse up the stairs.”

 

“My father is no feeble old man, my lord. My squire just needs find him. My lord father is quicker on his feet than certain lords I’ve met.”

 

Andar Royce’s posture conveyed the offense he took at Lord Umber’s words. The heir to Runestone was eight-and-twenty by Jon’s estimation. He took after his father in his look and manners. The beard that covered his square jaw was as bushy as Bronze Yohn’s, but copper-brown, rather than grey. Both Royces had thick builds and strong hands. Their eyes were the same shade of grey, which was slightly lighter than the near-black color typical of House Stark. Matching his father’s courteous demeanor, Ser Andar was as polite as any man who trained in the chivalric arts could to be. _However, any knight who is so capable a fighter will only oblige so much instigation._

 

“Ser,” said Jon, trying to disrupt any mounting tension. He slid his knife back into the sheath on his right hip. “Lord Umber and I know your father’s worth. Northmen have a manner of speech that southerners can find coarse. Men hailing from Last Hearth? All the more.”

 

The Greatjon grinned a toothy smile, and Andar graciously insisted that he hadn’t taken offense.

 

The squire was breathless when he entered. The boy of three-and-ten futilely attempted to say something. Yohn Royce patted him on the shoulder and said, “No need for introductions. You are dismissed.” The burly lord ran a hand through his plume of grey hair and took a seat behind the room’s desk. His son walked over to stand at his side.

 

Ser Jon began, “My lord, I received a letter from Lady Sansa.”

 

“Good, good. How fares our lady and Lord Robert?”

 

“All seems well. She did not make mention of Robert Arryn, so I have no reason to believe anything of consequence has changed at the Gates of the Moon. My sister wrote of Ser Brynden’s success at Riverrun.”

 

“The Blackfish?” asked Jon Umber.

 

Bronze Yohn told him, “Tully left to take back his family’s castle, whilst my men set out for here. Andar, when we are finished here, tell our man in the rookery -the one you sent to take over the ravens from Frey’s maester- to send word to Brynden. See that we inform him of what plans we settle on here, and be sure to ask after his.”

 

“My lord,” said Jon. “Sansa told of a letter she received in our absence. A rich magister of Pentos wants to strike some bargain with us. He sent his steward to beseech me on my way to the Eyrie, and now he writes to Lady Sansa.”

 

The Greatjon huffed his surprise. “Pentos?! What stake does _Pentos_ have in our actions?”

 

“I do not know, Lord Umber. The letter states that someone leading the Golden Company is calling himself, ‘Aegon Targaryen,’ and has conquered Storm’s End.”

 

The others in the room looked as bewildered hearing this news as Jon had felt when he first read of it.

 

“This so-called Targaryen asks for me and Sansa to venture there ourselves.”

 

“Nonsense,” Andar declared. “Sending an envoy, someone we can trust, might be wise. But if this is a Lannister trick to draw Lady Sansa out. . . We’ll not be falling for it, my lords.”

 

His father and Greatjon Umber agreed.

 

Yohn added, “That does leave us with the unanswered question, son: To where do we next march?”

 

Their losses during the fighting had been minimal, but their ranks could scarcely be called a host.

 

“Of the men we brought with us up the Green Fork,” said Andar, “we have a small number less than four hundred, my lords. Adding to that the sixty-two soldiers Ser Jon and I found in the dungeons, we have four hundred and fifty fighters, or near enough to make no matter. That is far from enough to overrun King’s Landing, but perhaps swords adequate to make a formidable company when compared to the unguarded Riverlands.”

 

“The Riverlands are not unguarded,” Yohn reminded his son. He looked at Jon and gestured for the young man to speak.

 

Ser Jon explained to Andar and the Greatjon, “After Riverrun bent the knee to the Kingslayer, the host split. Two thousand Freys left for the Twins. We’ve learned that some Black Walder took to Seagard, some traveled north, and some burned during Viserion’s assault.”

 

“Well done,” Umber commended, then chuckled at his words.

 

Jon continued, “The Kingslayer took half the Lannister men to Blackwood Vale. His cousin, another Lannister, I don’t know where he went with his one thousand swords.”

 

Lord Royce suggested, “My guess would be that wherever they marched off to, they’ll turn right around when word spreads about Riverrun.”

 

“Ser Brynden won’t surrender as quickly as Lord Edmure did,” said Jon. “Even if they give him no other choice, I expect that the Blackfish won’t yield.”

 

“All this talk of the Riverlands, boy. . .” muttered the Greatjon. “You don’t mean to make for the North?”

 

 _Oh,_ Jon thought. _I do, my lord._ However, he knew that the North would require far more men than they had at the Crossing. _We’ll need soldiers if we mean to rescue Winterfell rather than burning it and the Boltons inside its walls._

 

Bronze Yohn’s line of thought resembled Ser Jon’s. “Our gains will be for naught, Lord Umber, if we allow the Lannisters. . .” Lord Royce stopped for a second. He asked Jon, “Was it Ser _Daven_ Lannister who leads the second host of a thousand men?”

 

Recalling the name, Jon nodded.

 

Royce resumed, “If we do not stop them from taking back Riverrun and hanging Ser Brynden, these two victories will be for naught.”

 

“How would we do that, my lord?”

 

Yohn thought for a moment.

 

“We might make for Harrenhal,” Ser Andar said. “As you told me, Father, it changed hands during this war and is not likely to be well guarded.”

 

The Lord of Runestone leaned his elbow on the desk. “Might be we could capture that castle with just the men we have.”

 

“How far away does Seagard lay?” the Greatjon asked. “We could devise some trap for Black Walder. We have a bloody dragon!”

 

 _We’ll find more Freys there._ Jon liked the plan and agreed with Lord Umber.

 

“Wait, my lord,” Yohn implored. “The _war_ , we must needs win _the war._ ”

 

“Then let Ser Snow command his dragon to set fire to King’s Landing and be done with it.”

 

Jon recalled what happened when Viserion was loosed on the western keep of the Twins. _Children in their beds. . . screaming._

Ser Jon said, “The dragon would need be controlled, Lord Umber. Burning every woman and child in the capitol holds no honor for our cause. My father would have never have condoned such a thing.”

 

Umber stared back at him, then nodded. “So you’ll have to point out that little shit, King Joffrey, when he shows his face on the ramparts of the Red Keep. The she-dragon will pluck him like a squealing pig for slaughter, and we’ll ransom him back for our lands.”

 

“Joffrey?!” Ser Andar derided him.

 

Lord Yohn shot his son a stern look.

 

The knight straightened his expression and said, “My Lord of Umber, Joffrey Baratheon was poisoned at his own wedding feast, seven moons ago.”

 

The Greatjon grinned. “So who rules Westeros, Royce? Tywin the Gold-shitter?”

 

Ser Andar held his tongue.

 

“My lord,” said Jon. “You’ve missed much during your captivity. Tyrion the Imp killed his father on the night he fled King’s Landing. I mentioned something of this two days ago, though I did not get into any details.”

 

The Greatjon shrugged his massive shoulders.

 

Jon continued, “Cersei Lannister declared herself Queen Regent for her younger son, Tommen. She committed all manner of evil during her short reign. For that, the Faith imprisoned her below the Great Sept of Baelor.”

 

Shocked, Jon Umber responded, “So who in the seven hells is ruling this shit-pile of a kingdom?! Who are we bloody fighting?!”

 

“Kevan Lannister, my lord. He is regent for Tommen, his nephew twice over.”

 

“Your plan has merit,” Jon heard from behind his back. He turned to Bronze Yohn, surprised by the agreement.

 

Ser Jon responded, “I haven’t mentioned a plan, my lord. I’m just speaking on what strength we have and what we face.”

 

“No, no,” Yohn said, shaking his head. “I speak not of a specific plan, but the idea behind it: angling our quarrel at the head of our enemy, rather than the ranks he leads. Kevan Lannister’s son,” Lord Royce explained further, “he took Castle Darry as his seat. As far as I know, Lannister’s son and the rest of his close kin should be there, though Ser Kevan acts as Lord Regent in King’s Landing. Mayhaps,” he said, running his fingers through his thick, grey hair, “I should have thought of that before we set out to the Twins and Riverrun.”

 

Jon replied, “At the time, you proposed Harrenhal as a target, which was not poor council. Regardless, my lord, the Blackfish would not have accepted anywhere besides Riverrun, and I wouldn’t have agreed to attack anyone but Walder Frey. Now that both of those tasks are done, Darry sounds like a fitting destination for our next assault.”

 

“What about Ser Daven’s and Ser Jaime’s hosts?” Andar questioned.

 

Greatjon Umber made an amused grunt that he might have intended as a slight to the Royce knight. The tall Northman grinned through his grubby beard and told Andar, “Either our _lord of bronze_ is right and the Lannisters are a hundred leagues away marching off to bugger the Blackfish, or a thousand slabs of dragon-fodder will find themselves marching on the wrong tract of Westeros.”

 

Yohn and his son both bristled at Jon Umber’s provocation, but Lord Royce replied calmly, “The she-dragon isn’t invincible, my lord. Only a fool would risk her against an unknown number of archers needlessly.”

 

To himself, Ser Jon wondered, _Where would we be if some chance arrow felled Viserion?_ The dragon’s scales protected her like a set of plate and mail. _But, even the finest armor cannot thwart every possible shot. Many a breastplate has been pierced by a crossbow bolt._

 

The Greatjon seemed satisfied by Bronze Yohn’s answer and offered no more attempts to rile either Royce. “Darry, then,” he affirmed, adding, “my lord.”

 

They then discussed re-equipping their riverbarges and what they would need when they made their way down the Green Fork to the mouth of the Trident and to the nearby Lannisters of Castle Darry.

 

“We’ll need to see to the Frey prisoners,” said Andar.

 

Lord Yohn gave the task of organizing them into separate barges to his son. Before dismissing him, Royce added, “Work with Ser Damon Shett and my captains to see that every ship is properly armed and guarded.”

 

After Andar left, Lord Royce looked at Jon and the Greatjon. The expression of Bronze Yohn’s face suggested a question for them.

 

 _Yes, my lord,_ Jon thought, understanding the unspoken query. _We’ll take Darry and capture the Lord Regent’s kin. With them in hand, he’ll be at our mercy._

 

Ser Jon nodded his agreement first, then Umber after him.

 

Before they concluded, Jon advised, “Lord Royce, see that your men take all provisions and items which might be of use to our cause. Forasmuch, I mean to have Viserion burn the Twins to ashen cinders.”

 


	48. Jon - On The River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to keep the updates coming quickly and steadily. Here's another chapter!

 

A few hundred yards down the Green Fork from the Twins, Ser Andar Royce organized their river-caravan. He tasked a trusted knight in service to his father, Ser Damon Shett, with seeing to the women and girls of House Frey, who would be sent to septries at the first opportunity. They bemoaned the sentence handed down to them, but it was far more merciful than what could have happened had Ser Jon and Lord Royce been more like Walder Frey and Roose Bolton.

                                                 

 _They’d have been lucky to receive quick, clean deaths in the hands of such men,_ thought Jon.

 

Ser Kyle Condon gathered and catalogued the plunder on boats captured from the docks of the Crossing.

 

_Steel and silver and anything else of value or of use, we take with us. No sense in leaving it to burn or sink beneath the river. . . not with winter coming._

 

The Greatjon insisted upon taking charge of the male prisoners they brought with them.

 

 _Boys and old men,_ Ser Jon regarded, as he watched Umber corral them _._ In addition to the young members of House Frey, the Greatjon ordered about old serving-men sworn to Lord Walder. _All are to be shipped off to the Night’s Watch, once we get them on sea-faring vessels in Gulltown or Runestone._

 

And yet, the prisoners were not Ser Jon’s concern. His responsibility was Viserion.

 

Staring at the dragon, he thought of the night before, his party’s last night within the Twins.

 

* * *

 

A knock on his door had awoken him, though he insisted that he hadn’t been sleeping. It was Lymond Goodbrook, who asked permission to enter. The riverlord used his torch to light some candles on the mantle in Jon’s chambers.

 

When Ser Jon asked what brought Goodbrook to him in the dead of night, Lord Lymond said, “This did.” With both hands, he held up a plain, oaken box. It was a simple thing; its sides were each a foot and a half wide, and it was barely more than a foot tall. Lymond handed it to Jon, but requested that he not open it yet.

 

Goodbrook had then said, “Lady Roslin told me where to find the contents. I wasn’t. . . I am still not certain that you will wish to have them. Although. . . I couldn’t leave them where they were, nor could I discard them into the river. . .”

 

Ser Jon opened the box to find a collection of animal bones. They were months old and brown, having never been boiled properly.

 

“My lord, what is all this?” he’d asked. Jon picked up the skull and turned it over for a better look. “A horse?”

 

Lymond didn’t respond to the question.

 

 _No,_ Jon had thought. _The teeth are all wrong, were this skull from the head of a horse._

 

“That is. . .” said Goodbrook, “. . . _was_ all that Walder Frey kept. Frey tossed your. . . well, he cast the direwolf’s _body_ into the river as well as your. . .”

 

_As well as my brother’s head._

Jon found himself unable to speak his thoughts aloud. _Frey kept only Grey Wind’s head and Robb’s body. When they could provide him no more amusement, Frey did not even tend to what remained. He left the bones to fester and rot, most like in some dark corner of a Twins’ cellar._

 

* * *

 

His mind returning to his present, Jon told himself, _And here before me is my revenge._

 

_Burn it, dragon._

 

Others might have thought capturing the castle and installing a lord of their choosing to be a wiser choice than destroying the fortress. But if they did, no one voiced such thoughts to Jon.

 

The timber in the castle caught quickly beneath Viserion’s fire. Jon watched the dragon circle back around, her wings cutting through the smoke, to spread yellow-gold flame to every nook of the late Walder Frey’s home. Jon did not need to see through the she-dragon’s eyes; he could watch well enough with his own. Ser Jon let her melt the stone of the curtain walls and collapse the keeps without intervention. The only time he entered her mind was when she glided above the train of barges. _I do not like the slump of your neck, dragon. These people are not for burning or eating._

 

Jon could hear some of the children crying as they watched their home burn and melt and crumble.

 

 _Even justice as true as this can be hard,_ he thought.

 

People around him moved about securing supplies and pilferage, loading prisoners, and readying the ships.

 

Jon, though, did not lift a finger in any of those tasks. He stood nearby the rest of the contingent on the banks of the river, but felt utterly alone. His emotions simmered, and he tried to savor his revenge. _Justice,_ Jon reminded himself.

 

When finally the Water Tower fell and the bridge collapsed into the river, the deed was finished.

 

_Time to leave, dragon._

 

Jon whistled to her, even though she was already returning. He did so for the sake of Yohn and his men. Despite his troubled thoughts, he knew that it would not do for anyone to question how he truly called for her.

 

* * *

 

Just before their barges set out, Yohn encouraged Ser Jon to confine Viserion in the hold of a boat. However, Jon had to refuse on her behalf. Since their attack on the Twins, he could feel that the milk-white dragon was simultaneously more independent and more obedient. _Our connection is stronger,_ he knew, _but that is not all that has changed_. Viserion now understood the power and strength she possessed. _She learned of those traits amid burning and screaming Freys._ The uncertainty, even fear, that she’d felt of men was gone. Thus, even though Jon could better influence her actions with his thoughts, Viserion’s new confidence steered her too. Jon could feel the change, both in her thoughts and his own. _We’re both learning of this bond we have._

 

Physical touch helped their connection. The point of tactile sense served as a common thought and shared sensation in their minds. It made entering the dragon’s skin, eyes, and thoughts easier. Nevertheless, touch was no longer a necessity, even when Jon was trying to subsume his mind entirely into Viserion’s skin. _We don’t need that degree of joining, most times. Do we, dragon?_

 

Jon’s commands to Ghost had been easy and instinctive. He could sense alarm when the direwolf thought it, just as the wolf understood what Jon needed of him.

 

Viserion and Jon were still working toward that degree of understanding when not sharing a single body. _It is as if my more casual and passive bond with Ghost is harder to maintain and a more advanced skill, than a full embodiment. The nuances of what exists between Ghost and I is something, Viserion, that you and I are only beginning to grasp._

 

The dragon swooped down and skidded to a landing on the barge’s deck. The single, hooked claws on each of her winged limbs scraped across the boards until she stayed her momentum.

 

Jon looked at her and thought, _Your back legs are not so different from mine. Your wings are much the same as my arms, right down to the four lines of finger-like bones that you use to stretch or retract the leathery flaps of your wings. And, those two claws take the place of my thumbs. With Ghost, I feel as if I’m running on the tips of my toes. In some respects, dragon, you and I are more alike than me and Ghost have ever been._

 

Viserion loosed an amused shriek and blew a flash of fire straight up in the air.

 

_And in other respects, we’re quite different._

 

Aloud, Jon told her, “I’ll not confine you below, dragon. But during daylight hours, you must remain onboard. It would be my preference for you to curl up near the stern, surrounded by stacked crates. No flying before evenfall or after dawn. No matter what the Greatjon thinks, it would not do for every keep we pass to know of your existence. I want to give our enemies no time to prepare some defense to ensnare you. Instead, let them work themselves into a terror when they hear the conflicting rumors of the Twins. . . and when they see you descend upon them.”

 

She hissed.

 

“You hate this hiding, I know. You think man presents little threat, I know. But, I learned some of dragons in my lessons with Maester Luwin. The dragons of the past were not invincible and neither are you. The right army can field many an archer. What do you believe would happen if a thousand crossbows all loosed one, huge volley of bolts at you?”

 

The dragon did not yield to Jon’s words, as it was not in her nature to do so. Viserion simply did not argue further, and she shuffled to the stern of the deck.

 

Jon relaxed and walked toward the planks leading below.

 

“Ser!” called one of the Gulltown Arryns. “You’re. . . you’re just leaving the dr. . . dragon alone?”

 

“You’ve naught to fear from her,” Jon said. “Remember the battle? How many of Yohn’s men did she attack? How many of our ships did she set fire to?”

 

“Do you wish me to answer, ser? It was none.”

 

“That’s my point, friend. If Viserion can keep from harming you during an assault, she can certainly hold back from doing so while taking a nap.”

 

Jon smirked as he saw the fear waning in the merchant’s eyes. He told the man, “I mean to get some rest as well. Disturb me unduly, and I make no promises as to the harm that will befall you from mine own hands.”

 

* * *

 

In the darkness of the cargo hold, Jon closed his eyes. A moment later, he heard a voice nearby.

 

_That Gulltown Arryn will get an earful if he has no good reason to wake. . . me. . ._

 

Jon opened his eyes, but couldn’t form the words to ask the boatman anything. He saw that the cabin was now filled with candle-light, but the timber walls looked somehow darker.

 

_This is not the barge. . . and that is not the Gulltown deckhand._

_Sansa._

 

Jon tried to speak to her, but still he couldn’t shape the words in his mouth.

 

His red sister sat on her bed with her legs hanging over the side. He knew that if he wanted to, he could bite her shoe and steal away with it before she could stop him. But, he also knew that she would be displeased if he did. Thus, he resisted that impulse and contented himself with gnawing on the bone she’d gotten for him from the kitchens.

 

 _They’re talking,_ a voice reminded him. _Listen._

 

“He doesn’t hate you,” said the red sister. “I’m sure, Jeyne.”

 

The other girl shied from the words, but said back, “He does! I know it, my. . . I know it, Sansa. He _does_ hate me.”

 

He didn’t yet trust this one. Somewhere deep, he knew that her pack had played a role in the hunt that killed a member of his. _This one seems harmless, though. Harmless and afraid._ He could tell easily enough when one of their kind was afraid. _She carries herself like prey._

 

“If King Robb hadn’t married me. . . and, it was _my_ fault. If I didn’t. . . then, he would have married a Frey and . . . and my mother. . . I’m so, so sorry, my lady. I swear, I am.”

 

“You never meant for any of that to happen,” said the one he was supposed to watch over. She sounded worried, and he raised his head so that he might better see her posture. “And Jon, well, he isn’t inclined to flatter. Hmm. . . he might not be capable of it. He’s like our father in that way. People who did not know Father well, they thought him cold and quite stern. But not his family or other people close to him.

 

“So when he returns, Jon will still seem serious with you, until. . . until he doesn’t. Give him a chance to know you. And when you win him over, his regard will feel more precious because you earned something that my brother doesn’t bestow very easy.”

 

The other girl looked up, ready to argue, but didn’t. She nodded and said nothing more.

 

* * *

 

With the current at their backs, the ships made better time on this leg of the journey. Much of the Green Fork was overflowing because of the autumn rains, especially at choke points. Jon stood against the port-side railing of the barge. He looked up at the stars overhead. _I recall another night on a ship’s deck, a night full of stars and moonlight._

 

He scanned the margins of the star-covered sky. _Viserion, confine your hunt to beast. Refrain from plucking man or woman at slumber or on the road. Remember, dragon: only animals._

 

In the three nights since his river-train left the banks on which the Twins once stood, Jon thought his dragon was growing more conscious of his desire that she not eat any innocents. His instructions began to feel more like reminders than commands. _In steps, she’s coming to grasp my feelings on her actions._

 

Jon decided to retire for the night. He descended to the cargo hold and his hammock. He closed his eyes. _I’ll let this body rest._ The knight’s thoughts receded from his mind, and Jon began his nightly hunt through the moonlit sky.

 

* * *

 

The evenfall sun cast a glow against the castle of brown rock in the distance. Setting camp beside the Trident, their small company made for a meager siege line. Ser Jon joined Lords Royce, Umber, and Goodbrook in Royce’s tent for a war council. Bronze Yohn insisted upon outriders scouting for any approaching host, but Lymond Goodbrook thought it unnecessary.

 

“Lord Royce,” Lymond said. “Let them call for aid. Who in the Riverlands can help them? Harrenhal sounds all but deserted, the knights of the Saltpans didn’t have even the strength to protect their own port. . . The closest Lannister loyalist is Jonos Bracken, and he’d have to cross Blackwood lands to get here.”

 

Lord Yohn still resolved to send patrols of his men mounted on Frey horses.

 

Goodbrook shrugged. “It’s no meat off my plate,” he said. “See that your captains come to me before routing their patrols. I know these lands better than any Valeman.”

 

Taking the mug of wine the Greatjon offered, Jon asked, “Why now is this a _Lannister_ castle? What of Lord Darry?”

 

“The Mountain,” Lord Umber grumbled. “At the outset of the war, he took the castle. Soon after, he moved on to murder smallfolk. Riverlanders took Castle Darry back. When the Mountain That Rides returned for a second siege, he put the castle to the sword. Bloody Lannister beast.”

 

Despite his feelings about what Gregor Clegane did, the Greatjon wished to lay waste to this castle as well. His discussions with Bronze Yohn, Lord Lymond, and Ser Jon centered on the murder of his son.

 

When Lord Royce again stressed the importance of hostages, Jon Umber said, “Death for death. One Lannister for Smalljon, one for King Robb, Kevan’s wife for Lady Stark, and some Lannister girl for the Mormont heir. You count them Lannisters, Yohn, and I’ll tell you whose death their lifesblood will pay for!”

 

Lord Yohn countered that it was the _Freys_ who took those lives, and that justice had been done.

 

The Greatjon thundered a laugh at that. “You forget Bolton’s crimes, Lord of Bronze! And as they did their killing, _The Rains of Castamere_ played. Tywin’s song of uprooting a defiant lord’s House. The Frey murders have the marks of his bloody hands all over them.”

 

“And he is dead,” stated Yohn.

 

Jon the Whitewolf reiterated the reason they ferried to Darry in the first place, “My lord, they still hold Lord Edmure Tully. Kevan Lannister was unlikely to trade the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands for any Frey. But his own kin? His son, perhaps?”

 

“Well said, ser,” Lord Royce said.

 

Greatjon Umber threw his arms in the air, but Jon knew they had his agreement, irrespective of any show of frustration.

 

Bronze Yohn said, “Lord Umber, we must needs discuss our assault.”

 

“Bugger that, Royce. Let Ned’s boy tell his dragon to fly circles around the Darry walls. After they’ve soiled their breeches, we offer terms. _Our terms,”_ he stressed.

 

* * *

 

Standing just beyond crossbow distance on the following afternoon, Jon watched Viserion make a show of her presence. He could feel the heat from her breath start in his chest and grow hotter in the back of his throat.

 

“Squire,” he directed, “a skin of wine and a skin of cool water, if you will.” Jon knew that it was not _his_ lungs or _his_ throat that burned, but still he sought to quench them.

 

Viserion’s flames shone brightly, high above the castle. Yet, it was her shriek which could truly put fear in their enemies’ hearts. Even men on Jon’s side of the siege shook at the sound.

 

Lord Lymond Goodbrook, the man of three-and-twenty years whose father had been a close companion of the former Lord of Darry, was sent as their envoy. The message he carried bore their terms.

 

 _A threat,_ Jon mused, _far more than words of peace._

 

Rather than face a fiery death, whoever awaited them inside the castle chose to open the black-iron portcullis.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews and comments are much appreciated!
> 
>  
> 
> GRRM owns everything of Ice and Fire.  
> For fun, not profit.


	49. Jon - Darry, Part 1

The courtyard of Castle Darry was filled with armed men of varying status. Hedge knights, men-at-arms, Poor Fellows, and commonfolk with wood cudgels, all protested the surrender of their arms. Most shouted that they held no allegiance to House Lannister.

 

A tall and bosomy woman of eight-and-ten years with mousey brown hair fought back tears as she yelled, “Cravens! You drank our stores dry and protested my efforts to hold back my offerings! How many of you pleaded your undying fidelity to this castle?”

 

Her words did little to change the men’s grumblings. Regardless, Yohn and his knights ignored their pleas and took their weapons.

 

Jon approached the woman. “My lady, what is your name?”

 

She stared at him for a moment. “I’m. . . I am Amerei Lannister, Lady of Darry.”

 

“Amerei Frey, more like,” Jon heard someone whisper under their breath. He turned to see Lord Lymond glaring at her.

 

Ser Jon looked again at the young woman and said, “My lady, walk with me and tell me of your lord husband. I wish to know of any kin that belong to either your House or your husband’s, who are inside the castle.”

 

She would not meet his eyes.

 

“I make no promises of their fates, my lady. But, it shall be better for all if you answer.”

 

Lymond added, “I assure you that it’ll go worse for them if you lie and we have to force their true names from their tongues.”

 

Without complaint, she guided Jon past the castle’s towers to the sept. Goodbrook followed several paces behind them. She stepped into the entryway of the sept and asked everyone to file out. Lady Amerei dismissed several washerwomen and begging brothers. Knowing that a brown hood might be hiding a face worth remembering, Jon lifted each one. He made note of their look, before sending them to stand with the other devout being gathered in the yard by the Runestone men-at-arms.

 

“My husband, Lord Lancel,” began Lady Amerei. “He told me he was renouncing his lands and titles. He chose to join the Warrior’s Sons in King’s Landing. We’ve not heard from him since.”

 

“So whose bloody castle is this?” asked Lymond.

 

Jon shot him a look. _This will only be harder if they do not yield all they know. Stifle such remarks._

 

“My lady,” said Jon. “Who is your husband’s heir?”

 

She shrugged.

 

“Please continue, in any case.”

 

In front of the small, oaken building, stood the ten highborns who’d gone to pray when they caught sight of the dragon. Lady Lannister took the hand of a kind-faced woman with grey streaked hair. Amerei drew her away from the others and toward Ser Jon.

 

_Is this the lord regent’s wife? Might this be the woman who ends the war?_

 

A thin girl of three-and-ten followed closely behind, but Jon’s eyes stayed trained on the grey-haired woman.

 

_Their lives are in my hands. How will it feel, Lannister, to finally be at the mercy of your enemy? Maybe I’ll marry off a child of your House to someone whom you hate. I have knights aplenty to have your kin beaten. Perhaps I’ll slice the head of Lady Amerei off her shoulders and stitch a beast’s head in its place._

 

A voice from Jon’s memory whispered, _There is no honor in this, my son._

 

The older woman stepped forward. “Lady Mariya Darry, my lord. I am Lady Amerei’s mother.”

 

_No, this is not the woman we set out for. This is just another Frey wife._

 

Jon said only a curt greeting.

 

Stepping in front of her daughter, the composed woman began to list the names of the others lined up outside of the Darry sept. “This is Ser Harwyn Plumm,” she said. “He is the captain of my daughter’s guard and castellan of Darry.”

 

The knight inclined his head, but offered no courtesies.

 

“Harwyn Hardstone,” Lord Lymond addressed the knight from the Westerlands. “I would have thought to find you commanding the men atop the castle gates. Has the war turned you pious or craven, that we meet you amongst women in a sept?”

 

Lady Mariya answered before Plumm could. “Ser Harwyn was defending his lady’s family, my lords. No less.”

 

Jon asked him to turn over his warhammer and his dirk. The man did so without voicing his displeasure.

 

Next, Lady Mariya beckoned to the girl at her side. Her hair was boyishly close-cropped, and the maiden of thirteen wore a dress of Darry brown. “This is my youngest daughter, Marissa,” she said, leaving off the girl’s family name.

 

_House Frey._

 

The boney maester’s name was Ottomore, which Jon couldn’t place with any particular region of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

He noticed Lymond Goodbrook oddly still. The young lord was transfixed on someone among the five men of high standing, just to the left of Lady Mariya. The woman did not overlook the building tension. She asked, “My lords, might Lady Amerei escort her young sister to her chambers? I believe Marissa would do well to feel the comfort of her rooms, opposed to subjecting her to any turmoil in the courtyard.”

 

Jon nodded and caught a passing squire by the collar. “You are to see these two ladies safely to their chambers. Stand guard over them until I send for you. Aye?”

 

The boy took up the task and followed behind Amerei and Marissa Frey as they left.

 

Once her girls were inside Plowman’s Keep, Lady Mariya offered up the names of the remaining men, “May I present my good-brother, Ser Danwell, and my nephew through marriage, Ser Arwood.”

 

_More Freys._

 

“Danwell Frey,” Goodbrook said with bitter mocking in his voice. “I would have that sword of yours now, and mayhaps you’d care to share a flagon of wine afterward.”

 

Mariya’s good-brother was some forty years old with a pinched face and a chin so flat that a flap of skin shook from the curve of his neck, despite the lack of fat on him.

 

“Lord Lymond. . .” he mumbled, hesitant. “A flagon? Yes, if it please you.”

 

Goodbrook narrowed his gaze. “Yes, Danwell. It would please me to share a table and half a night of song with you, before I throw you into a dungeon. You did no less.” He shot a look to Jon, who did not attempt to argue with him. “Seven months, _Frey!_ I languished in mold and my own filth in that cell! Rotten turnips, brackish marsh-water, _that_ was the courtesy of your lord father!”

 

Ser Danwell and his nephew, Ser Arwood, said nothing. They offered their sword hilts and no protestations. The two Freys backed away, and Jon’s attention turned to the remaining three men.

 

Lady Mariya paced over to them, but as she did, Jon saw the flash of naked steel in the corner of his view.

 

“Les Haigh! Your head looks off-kilter with you missing half an ear.” The Greatjon loomed over the knight in service House Frey. Bronze Yohn was with him, and a contingent of guardsmen bracketed the two lords. “I’ll be glad to even the pair by taking off half the other one,” Umber growled.

 

Lady Mariya stepped between them. She said, “This is Ser Leslyn Haigh, my late husband’s relation by marriage. The two young men are his sons. The younger is Ser Donnel Haigh, and the elder-”

 

“Ser Harys,”  interrupted Lymond. “I watched you and Black Walder slay Ser Dafyn Vance at that murderous wedding. He was husband to a Frey, just like you. But that didn’t stop you, did it? Some might call you a kinslayer for that.”

 

The young knight shook his head. “The man was no kin of mine.” When Lord Goodbrook began to protest, Ser Harys said, “But! But, we did not kill him. It was Ser _Hugo_ Vance you think of, not Ser Dafyn. We freed him so he could swear fealty to King Tommen. Black Walder and I wounded Ser Hugo, yes, but we did not kill him.”

 

Lord Umber scoffed. “Just oathbreakers and kingslayers. Your honor is soiled in shit, all the same.”

 

Mariya Darry met Jon’s eyes. The look was a silent request of him to end the escalating hostility. He knew that these knights were like to be executed within days, mayhaps hours. _But gathered before their kin, now is not the time for them to lose their heads._

 

“My lords,” he said to Yohn Royce, Lymond Goodbrook, and Jon Umber. “Now that we know who these men are, mayhaps we should confine them so we may discuss their fates privately.”

 

Lord Yohn ordered his guards to find dungeons for Danwell and Arwood Frey, Harwyn Plumm, and Leslyn, Harys, and Donnel Haigh. The men-at-arms held steel-tipped spears to the backs of the prisoners and Lymond Goodbrook offered to lead them from the sept.

 

“Father!” two boys shouted together as they appeared out of nowhere. Ser Arwood Frey turned, and the four-year-old twins wrapped their arms around their father’s legs.

 

A young woman came chasing after them with a babe in her arms and a girl of six clutching onto the string of her apron as she ran alongside. The woman said to her husband, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I tried to. . .” The lady, who looked to be no more than twenty, stopped her apology and stared at the assembled knights and lords.

 

Bronze Yohn took hold of her arm.

 

“Ryella?”

 

Both the young woman and the girl at her side looked up at him. The six-year-old cowered behind her mother, who hesitated beneath his gaze for a moment. Then, recognition dawned upon her. “My lord?” she asked. “Yohn?”

 

He grinned down at her and embraced the woman in his thick arms.

 

The small girl shuffled over to her father, Ser Arwood Frey, and her twin brothers.

 

“Careful!” the woman cried to Yohn Royce. The babe in her arms began to wail. Lord Royce beckoned for her to hand the child to him.

 

He cradled the infant against his shoulder, jostling her lightly. She quickly settled her head against his thick, grey beard.

 

“My lords,” announced Bronze Yohn to Goodbrook, the Greatjon, and Ser Jon. “This is Ryella Royce, the daughter of one of my cousins.” Yohn handed the babe back to her. “I cannot believe that you are now a mother to four children!” he said, smiling through his beard. “Your father is well, my lady. He, Maester Helliweg, and Strong Sam govern Runestone in my absence.”

 

Suddenly, Yohn appeared to remember what he was in the midst of doing. “Ryella, do you remember Ser Damon?” he asked. “The Knight of Gull Tower?”

 

When she nodded, Bronze Yohn called across the courtyard for his bannerman, Damon Shett, and told him to escort her and her children into the keep. He reminded the man that though they bore the name _Frey_ , they carried Royce blood and needed to be treated appropriately.

 

“And my husband?” Lady Ryella asked.

 

Lord Yohn looked at her with empathy, but shook his head. Ryella held her infant against the crook of her shoulder and took her daughter’s hand, but couldn’t coax the twins into letting go of their father. Ser Damon picked them up and carried the boys. Both fought against his grasp.

 

Lady Mariya called out, “Ser, would you be courteous enough to escort Lady Wynafrei Whent, my good-brother’s wife, to the keep as well?” The kindly knight, with one twin pinned against each of his shoulders, looked over to the frail-looking woman half-hidden behind Mariya and nodded.

 

To personally see to the other confinements, Lord Umber shoved the three knights of House Haigh to get them moving. Lord Lymond pointed his sword at Danwell and Arwood Frey until they turned and followed. Ser Harwyn the Hardstone trailed after them without a word.

 

Bronze Yohn looked from the knights being marched toward the dungeons, to his relative and her children on their way to Plowman’s Keep, then back to Jon.

 

 _This will be no easy thing,_ Ser Jon thought. _Meting out justice has been hard and is not like to become any easier._ “My lord,” he said. “Go with her. Your son has the sparrows and guardsmen well in hand, and I’ll see to anything else that needs doing.”

 

Yohn thanked Jon and strode after Ryella Royce.

 

Mariya Frey gestured to the maester. He nodded and followed Lord Royce.

 

Standing just outside of the entrance to the sept of Castle Darry, Ser Jon and Lady Mariya were alone.

 

“My lord,” she said. “Will you walk with me? We have matters to discuss.”

 

Surprised and not knowing how else to respond, he offered his arm. Together, they paced away from the sept.

 

Castle Darry was ancient and small. Jon could see the harsh effects of war on its structures. Fire had darkened the stone of the first floor of the keep and the lower half of the castle walls. A pile of ash and charred wood was stacked against the wall on the far side of the courtyard. Next to it, stables made from freshly cut timber indicated the strides the castle had made since the worst of the war. New oak also shuttered the keep’s windows and reinforced the castle gates.

 

Following his gaze, Mariya told him, “This was my lord father’s castle when I was a girl. For years, I lived at the Twins and wished for home. Now that I am here, the Seven see fit to make a jape of what little family I have left. Before the war. . . oh, how different this castle was then.”

 

She paused for a breath and a memory. “But then, rebellion happened.” The lady said it without malice.

 

Jon replied, “You cannot blame a son for riding to free his father.”

 

“To free his father?” she repeated. Understanding his meaning, she returned, “No, my lord. We refer to two different rebellions. Similar in some ways, mayhaps, but I speak of _Robert’s_ Rebellion.

 

“Before that war, my family felt quite safe. I had five, strong brothers all older than my sister and I. Adding to that, House Darry was close with the royal family. One brother, Ser Jonothor Darry to the realm, but simply _Jono_ to us, he was a knight of the Kingsguard. Willem was the master-at-arms in the Red Keep.”

 

“Willem Darry?” Jon asked, unsure of why the name was familiar.

 

She smiled sadly. “You have no doubt heard the story of King Aerys’s younger son and newborn daughter escaping across the Narrow Sea?”

 

Mariya waited for Jon to nod.

 

“A decade and a half of histories name Will a traitor to the crown. But, to which crown, my lord? The boy I remember from my days in this castle grew into a loyal man. He risked all to save his king’s children.”

 

She broke off her tale as some of Lord Yohn’s men marched past, glancing sideways at her and Jon.

 

“Rebellion is a curious thing, my lord.”

 

Jon corrected her, “I am no lord, my lady, merely a knight.”

 

“Ser, then,” she said, beginning her thoughts anew. “When a story is put to verse, we call it a song. When it is penned upon parchment, it becomes _history._ But the second is no more reliable than the first; no more reliable than the tale-teller. If the war had gone otherwise, House Darry would be the valiant and loyal, and the Baratheons would be the traitors. In either case, the actions of my father and my brothers would not have changed.”

 

She clutched his arm tighter, and Jon slowed his gait. “Their actions wouldn’t,” he responded, “but history. . .”

 

“Yes, ser. Their history would have changed.”

 

They rounded behind the castle’s small feasting hall. Abruptly, she broke the brief silence between them. “You won’t hurt them, ser? The children, you won’t hurt them. . .” She stepped in front of Jon and looked into his eyes. “I have to be certain of my Ami and Marissa’s fates. My other two. . . I cannot bear the fear that comes with danger hanging over their heads. I have four children, two of my daughters are here, but my other girl and my son. . .”

 

Lady Mariya turned her face to the northward sky. “Winterfell,” she said with longing.

 

_Winterfell?_

 

Seeing Jon’s expression, she explained, “My Walda and Walder. My husband Merritt’s family called her, ‘Fat Walda,’ and him, ‘Little Walder.’ My daughter is now wife to Lord Bolton, and my son is squire to Bolton’s natural son.”

 

_Winterfell._

 

Jon asked, “Have you received word from them?”

 

She didn’t answer him, preferring to resume their walk. This time, though, she did not take his arm. They passed the end of the main hall, and Jon saw a waist-high wall of loosely lain rocks. It cordoned off a grove of trees within the castle.

 

“A godswood,” he heard himself utter. “My lady, does it, perhaps, have a weirwood? A heart tree?”

 

She inspected his face. “I have not entered that place since returning, ser. I do my praying in the sept. But the heart tree? An elm, I recall. Godly men do not grow weirwoods, much less pray to them, if that is what you intend to do.”

 

Jon found himself smiling at the well-composed widow. “Of the two of us, my lady is most like the more _godly_. But in Winterfell, most men thought the Seven a quaint Southron tradition, if somewhat childish.”

 

He expected some motherly chastisement about his lack of respect for the new gods. Instead, she raised her hands over her mouth.

 

“Winterfell? You are of Winterfell?”

 

“Aye, my lady,” he replied, sliding into a hoarser northern accent.

 

He then saw the worry in her eyes. “Why does that distress you so? We are a long ways from the North, from your children and my boyhood home.”

 

 _To say nothing of how the boots of House Bolton soil the castle with merely their presence._ Jon had no interest in adding to her distress and thus held his tongue.

 

She told him, “Forgive me, ser. It’s just. . . seeing Lord Goodbrook and Lord Royce heed your words. . . For a moment, I thought you might be. . . But that is nonsense, I suppose. You’ve already said you are only a knight.”

 

_She’s fearful of my vengeance and suspects I might have cause to visit such retribution upon her family._

 

Jon heard a far off screech, carried by the wind. Without extending an effort or losing track of his present, Jon knew that Viserion was trying to scare some prey from its hiding place within a wood, a mile away.

 

He blinked and resumed his talk. “My family endured great suffering at the hand of your husband’s House. King Robb was my brother.”

 

“How many name days have you seen?”

 

_She thinks you too old to be Bran or Rickon._

 

“My father and brothers are dead. One was executed by a Lannister, one by the Freys and Boltons, and two by House Greyjoy. In his grief, a bastard son is equal to any father’s trueborn offspring.”

 

“I. . .” she searched for an appropriate reply.

 

Jon shook his head to assure her that she need not answer. He opened the short gate into the godswood and held it for her.

 

 As they entered, she told him, “Even to his foes, Lord Stark had a reputation for honor. His son, your brother the Young Wolf, had courage in him, if the tales are true. It was a shame. . .”

 

_Robb._

 

Finding no words, Jon looked about the godswood. Black branches crisscrossed the grey sky. The wood was little more than an old grove.

 

 _Is this really only a mother worried for her children?_ Ser Jon wondered. _Or, is this some Frey deception intended to prey upon my sympathy?_

 

He regarded Lady Mariya. _I see no Lord Walder in her. Nothing to fit with Sansa’s tales of Cersei Lannister. No venom in her voice or deception in her eyes._

 

 _She may have married a Frey,_ he reminded himself, _but she was not born of that House._

 

“What is to be done with us, ser?”

 

Jon asked her, “Have you heard about the Twins as yet, my lady?”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Everyone involved in the murders during the so named ‘Red Wedding’ was executed.” Jon met her eyes. “Justice demanded no less.”

 

“And you shall do the same with what men you find here,” she said.

 

“Aye,” he confirmed. “But, I am neither Frey, Lannister, nor Bolton, my lady. That alone should do much to put your mind at ease.”

 

“And what of the children of the Crossing?”

 

“The boys were shipped off to serve the Night’s Watch.”

 

She took a sharp inhale.

 

“The girls,” he continued, “to become septas and silent sisters. . .”

 

Lady Mariya Darry turned her face away. The fair skin touching the corner of her eye crinkled into well-worn creases, but no tears fell. She set her jaw and raised her chin, looking back at Jon.“Marriage makes for dangerous entanglements, ser.”

 

 Mariya shook her head. “Wed to House Frey. . .” she whispered, “and my children. . . one daughter’s hand to a Lannister, another to a Bolton.”

 

Louder, she said to Jon, “The family of my life as a wife and a widow is no less entangled with the current king, than the family of my girlhood was with the Targaryens.”

 

_Bowing to a fire-obsessed tyrant, a mad queen, and the lord of leeches. . . Might some fault lay with your House for its choices in whom it befriends?_

 

Jon let her speak without interruption, as this didn’t seem the moment for him to respond.

 

“I lost my father and three of my brothers in the last rebellion.” She added, “And a fourth brother, Willem, who could never return home. In this new war, my children lost their father. I lost my last brother, Lord Raymun, and worst of all. . . my young nephew, Lyman, a boy of eight. _Lannister_ bannermen put him to the sword,” she noted with sorrow in her voice. “When they took this castle, they put everyone to the sword. All of the people I knew as a girl and their children. . .”

 

_She is in an impossible position._

 

The path had led them to a thick, brown tree in what appeared to be the center of the godswood. Its bark was furrowed and craggy. The trunk was twenty feet around. Jon looked up and saw that at ten feet high, the trunk split into a score of boughs, all reaching for the sky. Only near their tips did they waiver from their upward growth. The top was one hundred and ten feet from the rooted ground. The tree’s crown-spread was narrow considering the tree’s height, but still wider than most any tree Jon had seen, which was not of bone-white bark and blood-red leaves.

 

“The heart tree?” he asked.

 

She nodded.

 

Jon knelt before it, and Mariya Darry turned to leave.

 

Without examination or fore-thought, he asked, “My lady?” When she looked back to him, Jon said, “My family won the rebellion that your family lost. Still, my father lost a brother, a sister, and his own father. It seems that your family won the more recent war, yet still you lost a husband, a brother, and a cherished nephew.

 

“Will you pray for them with me? If you would spare some words to your gods for the lost Starks, I’d include House Darry in mine to my gods.”

 

Without making a sound, she approached and knelt beside him. Jon prepared to make his prayers in silence.

 

Mariya clasped her hands and said hers aloud, “May the Mother grant those of my blood mercy and peace, and those of Stark blood too. May she spare the children, especially: the little ones without the chance to face the joys and struggles of growing into adulthood. May the Father deal kindly when seeing to his justice on our loved ones and on us, we flawed creatures. And may the Maiden carry with her the spring of new life in the coming years. May what children we have left see better days.”

 

_Gods, please look close and see the good within us. Please keep safe Sansa, Robb’s Jeyne, and Arya, wherever she might be. Please watch over Ser Brynden, and all the honorable men who joined with me to cast down the Freys, and please watch over Lady Mariya._

 

Jon glanced at her. She was still kneeling and kept her head bowed.

_I know the pain of losing a father. . . and what it is to lose one’s brothers. This lady and I . . . we both lost spouses, though I loved mine and she says that she cared not for her husband._

_No matter how you regard her actions and mine - but I hope I am doing right by you and by my ancestors. . ._

_By the honor of my trueborn Stark forebears, I pray that you do what you can to shelter Lady Mariya’s daughters and my sister from any further suffering._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter felt like it had a mind of its own while I was writing it. What was supposed to be a two paragraph conversation with a minor character turned into a full page of Mariya Darry reflecting on her family and her life. Then one page became two, and it took off from there. 
> 
> Despite the detail put into her back-story, I don’t mean for her to suddenly play a major role in this fic. It was just _this writer’s_ super self-indulgent tangent that I went off on and happened to really, really enjoy writing. I hope you all liked it too, even if it deviated from the main plot.
> 
> Part two of this chapter will be finished soon ( _fingers crossed_ ) and, for better or not, will have more Jon Snow-Mariya Darry talk.


	50. Jon - Darry, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right after where the last chapter left off.

Ser Jon followed Bronze Yohn’s squire to the lord’s bed-chambers atop Plowman’s Keep. Even before he entered, he heard Lords Royce and Umber in a thunderous row.

 

The squire opened the door, but did not possess the courage to interrupt and announce Jon. The dark-haired knight waved the boy off and entered without him.

 

The Lord of Darry’s bedroom was devoid of fine furnishings. In place of a bed sat a straw pallet that would have appeared beggared in an inn.

 

Before they noticed him, Jon heard the last of their shouting.

 

“He’s a _Frey!”_ Greatjon bellowed.

 

“He’s wed to a woman of _House Royce,_ my lord!”

 

They silenced when they saw Ser Jon.

 

 _More deliberations,_ he thought. Jon was no more eager to join in the conversation than Yohn and the Greatjon appeared eager to continue it. The three of them stood looking at each other in the bare room.

 

“Ser Arwood Frey,” Yohn surmised for Jon.

 

“ _He was there,_ Royce,” stressed Lord Umber.

 

_If we are to take revenge and enforce justice, a man must die and his children must needs lose their father._

 

The Greatjon questioned Jon, “What say you?”

 

He looked at Lord Yohn. “My lord, the murderer is to blame for his crime, not his children.” Lord Umber was ready to argue, but Jon continued his thoughts. “Though in his death, they shall suffer for it. I don’t mean to say we should harm his sons and daughters, or that we can excuse his crimes for the benefit of his offspring. Just. . . the acts of our forbearers shape our futures, my lord. The son of a murderer and oathbreaker carries the burden of his father’s evil.”

 

Jon’s resolve waivered. _Is there not a better way than this? If this sentence is just, why does it feel so ill-chosen?_

 

Just as he was sliding into uncertainty, Bronze Yohn attempted to reach a compromise. “Fine,” said Lord Royce, “Ser Arwood’s fate will be the same as the other Freys. But not the children. Ryella’s children did no wrong.”

 

Greatjon questioned, “What would you do with them, Yohn? _They are Freys._ ”

 

“And of House _Royce_ ,” he shot back.

 

Umber stated, “Remember Ser Snow’s threats? ‘House Frey is at an end,’ he said.”

 

“Frey is a name,” Jon muttered.

 

Before Ser Jon could say more, Bronze Yohn declared, “They are of House Royce. They’ll take that name.”

 

Greatjon’s eyes narrowed on Yohn.

 

The Lord of Runestone asked him, “What do you argue against, Lord Umber? They are trueborn children of a Royce mother. They may take their mother’s name and join her House, without the need of lifting the stain of bastard blood.” He spared Ser Jon a glance.

 

Jon didn’t react.

 

“I am the head of House Royce,” he affirmed. “If I permit it, the children can take their mother’s name.”

 

“It’s true,” Jon said in agreement with Lord Yohn. “The laws of the Seven Kingdoms have long allowed for a lord to make such an arrangement for his kinsmen.”

 

The Greatjon huffed his general distaste, but offered no further objections.

 

“My lords?” asked Jon. “What does this mean? What have you decided?”

 

Bronze Yohn said, “Sers Leslyn Haigh, Danwell Frey, and Harys Haigh. . .” He conceded, “. . . and Arwood Frey. They all took part in the Red Wedding and will die for it. Ser Donnel Haigh-”

 

“Was there!”

 

“You admitted you did not _see_ him, my lord!” Yohn hollered back. He took a breath, then continued, “It will be the Wall for him and Ser Harwyn Plumm, the Westerman.”

 

Remembering Lady Mariya’s words, Ser Jon asked, “And the Frey children?”

 

“Danwell’s prick sired none,” said Umber. “ _Lord Royce_ means to give suckle to Arwood’s whelps. We’ve not spoken on Mariya Frey, Gatehouse Ami Frey, or the woman’s other girl, Marissa Frey.”

 

Jon asked, “You don’t mean to punish them, my lord? Lady Mariya _Darry_ and her daughters?”

 

“You sent the Frey women at the Twins off quick enough, boy. How is this different?”

 

_Because of a mother’s worries and the prayers of a kind-hearted woman._

 

Rather than answer directly, Jon questioned Bronze Yohn, “If they’d forsake the name _Frey_ and swear fealty to you, would you agree to see them to Runestone, my lord? If they swear to stay on the Royce peninsula for the rest of their days, would you agree to let them live out those days in peace?”

 

With his eyes, Ser Jon tried to convey a request of Yohn Royce, _I lent my support for the Freys you hope to shield from vengeance. Grant me this. You owe me as much. Mariya Darry and her Frey daughters, give to these three the safety of your castle._

 

“I’d not trust them at _my_ table,” growled Greatjon Umber.

 

With a subtle nod, Bronze Yohn pledged, “Yes, Ser Jon,”

 

“Then it’s settled,” Jon said with a smirk. “No Freys for Lord Umber. And a Royce, her four children, a Darry, and her two nameless daughters for Lord Yohn.”

 

Greatjon Umber snorted, and Bronze Yohn knuckled his forehead.

 

“Ned’s bastard boy hasn’t heard the news, Royce. Care to tell him?” The hulking Northman looked down at Jon. “You are like to find this bit hilarious, boy.”

 

Yohn furrowed his brow and said, “It was all for naught, ser. Though we didn’t find Lord Regent Kevan Lannister’s son or wife in the castle, it would not have mattered.”

 

“He’s dead, boy,” Jon Umber said with a hoot.

 

“It is true. Dead of an arrow to the belly and a score of knife wounds to his person.”

 

“But why?” Jon asked. “Who’d want to kill him?”

 

“Us,” stated Umber, flatly.

 

“I know that _we_ would. But, who among _the Lannisters_ would wish to see him dead?”

 

“Lord Tyrell, mayhaps,” posed Yohn. “Lady Sansa was certain that they’d betrayed their allies once. Why not once more?”

 

Jon wondered, “Perhaps. . .”

 

“Mace Tyrell will name himself regent,” predicted Greatjon Umber. “One of Yohn’s perfumed knights told me that Tyrell was already Hand of the King. Now the way is clear for him to rule.”

 

Lord Royce nodded his agreement. He said, “Tyrell bannermen are the Masters of Laws and of Ships. None in King’s Landing have the strength to oppose him.”

 

“And the queen?” asked Lord Umber.

 

“She is his daughter, my lord,” replied Yohn, rolling his eyes.

 

“Not _that_ queen! The other! _Cersei_.”

 

Jon supplied, “The High Septon told me that she wished for a trial by combat.” For the moment, he ignored Yohn’s questioning look. “Do we know the outcome, my lords? Has the trial happened?”

 

Neither of them knew.

 

“So we captured a household, but can trade none of them,” Jon said. “Is there further resolution we can reach today?”

 

“We need to decide upon a next move, Ser Jon.”

 

Greatjon asked, “Did that skinny maester receive any news of the North?”

 

Yohn shook his head. “However,” he countered, “Darry is not so ill a place to wait for word from Ser Brynden in Riverrun and Ser Albar in the Vale. The Ruby Ford is just north of here. We can fortify it with patrols from this castle. We are near to the mouth of the Trident and the sea. We sit just beyond where the Forks of the Trident join. Riverrun is up the Red Fork and traveling northward would be simple enough on the Green Fork.”

 

“More waiting,” Lord Umber groaned. “We linger and winter closes in.”

 

“My lord,” Jon said to Bronze Yohn, “he is not wrong.”

 

“I’ve sent ravens, ser. We must needs coordinate with the levies Ser Symond Templeton is organizing from the Lords Declarant. We must needs contact Riverrun. Mayhaps other lords of the Riverlands have flocked to Ser Brynden,” he said, hopeful.

 

 _Waiting on ravens to cut through late autumn storms. . ._ Jon lamented. _They are as like to reach their intended destinations as they are to reach the Shadow-by-Asshai. If only the Mountain Pass were clear, we might send riders to the Gates of the Moon. . ._

 

“How far is the Eyrie from here?” he asked suddenly. “How many days by raven?”

 

“Two hundred miles to the Bloody Gate,” Yohn answered. “From there, not far. A strong, well-fed raven will take. . . with clear skies? A day to cover the whole distance. Why?”

 

“If a raven is strong enough as a flier to make the journey in a day, how long do you expect a dragon to need?”

 

Greatjon shrugged. “You have my backing with this plan, Ser Snow.”

 

Agreeing that Jon should set off soon, they discussed what Yohn wished him to say to the leaders of the host forming in the Vale. Echoing his earlier thoughts, Bronze Yohn mentioned that Darry was a fine place for them to land after they rounded the Vale’s coastline.

 

Jon asked him if he could think of anyone else they might exchange for the safe return of Lord Edmure Tully.

 

“Well, Tyrell’s heir for one,” the Greatjon said with a laugh.

 

Lord Yohn straightened his shoulders and replied, “A far from suitable first step to an alliance, my lord.”

 

With a flick of his arm, Umber waved the notion away. “By our luck, on the day we catch the Tyrell boy some other southern lord will have wrestled control of the throne.”

 

Bronze Yohn told Jon to be sure that the Knight of Ninestars brought all of the maps and surveys that he and Maester Coleman could gather. “We do not yet know our next destination. It wouldn’t due to limit the roads we can take for fear of being unable to ford a river or navigate a forest.” He added, “Before you set off, see Andar for a list of any provisions of which we are short.”

 

Greatjon Umber advised only, “Just don’t let those southrons forget their cloaks, winter is coming.”

 

* * *

 

As Jon descended the staircase, he noticed the bare walls. Where other castles would hang tapestries or the shields of their most renowned kinsmen from generations past, Castle Darry showed only bricks of brown stone. He reached the landing of the floor he was looking for and turned down the hallway.

 

Ser Jon found a squire perched on a stool squarely in front of the door. The boy of three-and-ten inclined his head and muttered, “Ser Jon. . .er. . . Snow -wait. . . Ser Dragon. . . umm, white. . .”

 

“Close enough,” he said. “Stand aside.”

 

Jon knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. He heard a female voice and proceeded to open the door. Jon found Lady Mariya and her youngest daughter consoling Lady Amerei. “Ami, this is what happens in war. You are still the Lady of Castle Darry and you must needs be-”

 

“How can I be lady of anything?!” she exclaimed through her tears. “My lord husband threw me away! He’d rather. . .” The young woman looked over at Jon. She was sitting atop her bed, with her blankets wrapped around her like a cloak. The younger sister balanced on the edge of the mattress, and their mother occupied a chair facing them both.

 

Lady Mariya appeared frustrated and held up three fingers to Jon, begging for more time alone. Jon nodded and stepped outside. Through the door, he heard the older woman’s muffled voice and then Amerei’s shouts, “You don’t even care that he died! You never cared about Father! If you were a better wife to him, then maybe he would’ve cared more about us! This is your fault! All of it!”

 

After a brief silence, Mariya Darry opened the door. She said, “Ser Jon, I apologize for my daughter’s condition. I hope that you know that neither she nor I meant you any offense. My daughters. . .”

 

With an openhanded gesture, Jon dismissed the notion that he’d regarded the words as a slight. He told her, “Lord Yohn and Lord Umber reached an agreement regarding you and your daughters. I wished to discuss it with you before I depart.”

 

“You’re leaving, ser?”

 

“Aye,” he said. “Is there somewhere more. . .?”

 

She took his arm and led him away from the nervous squire in the doorway. Down the hall, they entered an empty room. It was devoid of any furnishings, but had been laid out with comfort and some degree of grandeur in its original construction. It boasted a wide fireplace and two windows with sun-rests extending from the stone just beneath them. Lady Mariya took a seat on one of them, and Jon leaned against the wall nearby.

 

As she looked out the window, she said, “I suppose you heard everything my daughter and I said.”

 

Jon hesitated for a moment, trying the think of a polite lie. Instead, he simply told her, “The shouting, my lady, that is what I heard.”

 

“My Ami is right, you know. I do not mourn her father, my dead husband. And, I suppose that makes me as poor a widow as I was a wife.”

 

Jon offered, “Depends on who the husband was.”

 

She turned her head and granted him a motherly smile in thanks.

 

“It was a strange thing, the nature of my betrothal and my wedding. Some plans and intentions have a way of flipping on their heads, Ser Jon.”

 

She clasped her hands together and again stared out the window. “I never much liked being far from home. My desire to stay close, in large part, led me to live so far from here.

 

“By the day I reached seven-and-ten years of age, Lord Frey had already spent years pestering my father for me to wed one of his sons. Even twenty years ago, the man had more sons than he knew what to do with. Merritt was his ninth. I know what you must be wondering, ser.”

 

He shook his head, not knowing to what she was referring.

 

“Why would my father wed his eldest daughter to a husband who didn’t stand to inherit even a cottage?” Mariya answered her own question, “Because without an inheritance of his own, my would-be husband was like to be pleased to receive a small and pleasant tower or holdfast overlooking his good-father’s fields. No heir would chose that, but a ninth son?”

 

Jon replied, “It sounds like a fine fate, my lady.”

 

She smiled, but her expression was tinged with longing.

 

“You wouldn’t know it if you’d seen him in his later years, but Merritt Frey was a handsome man in his youth. And compared to his kin, well, even more handsome, I suppose. His mother was a Crakehall, a House of good, robust stock. Young Merritt was broad shouldered with strong arms.

 

“But what strength he had then. . . was soon wasted. Before I knew him, he took a blow to his head as a squire, whilst chasing an outlaw band in the Kingswood. Lord Frey’s maester convinced my father that the headaches would ebb with time. At twenty, Merritt was no longer a squire and hadn’t been knighted. For that and for being a ninth son, not only did Lord Frey not demand a dowry for my hand, but actually offered one to my father. A _dowry_ for my father to take Merritt off his hands! Can you imagine the absurdity?”

 

Jon hadn’t heard of another arrangement like it, but since the match was for the ninth son, it did not seem unreasonable.

 

Mariya continued, “What appeared a generous arrangement from Lord Walder, turned out to be a blatant fleecing. His ‘faulty son,’ was what Lord Frey called my husband. At our wedding, he said so in front of my entire family. Walder Frey thought he was finished with Merritt for the rest of his days.

 

“Care to venture a guess at what disrupted Lord Frey’s plans?”

 

Jon replied, “Rebellion, my lady?”

 

“Yes,” she confirmed, “Robert’s Rebellion. I lost my father and three of my brothers in the Battle for the Trident, and a fourth to exile. Our loyalty to the Targaryens cost us the lives of most our family.

 

“And yet, Robert Baratheon was not content. He confiscated more than half our lands and nearly emptied our coffers. With Hoster Tully’s blessing, the drunkard king even took my House’s lordship from my last brother, Ser Raymun. Since the Andals first landed in Westeros, Darrys have been lords over these lands. King Robert and Lord Hoster saw fit to steal a title we held for four thousand years. From the days when House Teague ruled the Riverlands, through the Stormlord invasion, King Harren the Black, and Aegon the Conqueror, the head of House Darry was a lord. But, Robert Baratheon was wroth over Willem’s loyalty to his king’s young children, and Hoster Tully was likewise over what _he saw_ as my father’s betrayal. So afterwards? Afterwards, my brother could hold no title above a landed knight.

 

“Mayhaps it seems a silly thing to squabble about,” Lady Mariya said. “To wit, it certainly must seem so with my brother, my nephew, and even King Robert and Lord Tully dead.”

 

Jon shook his head. “I understand the importance of such things, my lady. It is the legacy of your House.”

 

She held her back straight and her head up high. Jon didn’t know why she was telling him all this.

 

_Why would she trust me with these thoughts and worries?_

 

He needed only another moment to grasp her reason and felt stupid for not realizing it from the first: _She thinks that I came to her quarters to lead her to a gallows. This rambling story is akin to a deathbed reflection._

 

“My lady,” he said. “If you are telling me this-”

 

She interrupted him with a raised hand. Mariya said, “Please, ser. If you might be so kind, I would have you hear this.”

 

Jon bowed his head to her.

 

“Today,” she resumed, “the loss of title and the lands. . . they make no matter. But years ago, they did.”

 

Lady Mariya sighed. “With the lands he lost, Raymun had no tower for Merritt. My brother knew he’d struggle to feed his household with so few fields to till. Despite that, Raymun told me I could stay, that he wanted me to.”

 

“I knew better,” Mariya said, looking Jon dead in the eye. “I knew that the sight of me made him feel like a failure. The shadow of our older brothers and our father loomed over him. And, my _noble_ husband made life wretched for my brother. No matter how pathetic he was, Merritt could elicit no compassion. He was so raucous with his drunken self-pity that it drowned out the sympathy of everyone in the castle.

 

“One day, I finally told Raymun that Merritt and I would be returning to my _good-father_ ’s lands. When I said it, I still held out hope that my brother would plead with me to stay, but the relief on his face told me that a departure would be best.”

 

Jon heard her whisper, _“All Merritt ever gave me was our children. . .”_

 

For a moment, he thought that the one-sided discourse might take a more optimistic turn.

 

However, she then said, “. . . and he saw fit to ruin even that.”

 

She pushed back her hair and dabbed her eyes. Mariya explained, “My Ami yearned so deeply for the affection that her father denied her, it left her heart a sieve. She is nigh unable to retain love, to cherish it and hold it dear.

 

“My second daughter, Walda, desired comfort amid the tumult of life within House Frey. Merritt was too drunk and loathsome to even notice his first daughter; he was no different in regards to his second.

 

“My fourth healthy child was a son. The son that my husband desired more than anything in the world. . . when he had only daughters. After I gave him Little Walder? Merritt remembered that he was landless and held no wealth of his own. Seeing our son each day only served to remind him that he had nothing to bestow. My husband turned his bitterness upon our boy. Little Walder became acclimated to that treatment at so young an age that I couldn’t tell if his cruelty to other children was due to his father’s spite or his Frey blood.

 

“Merritt was fond of saying, ‘I never did have any luck.’” She glanced at Jon. “If some men are capable of making their own good fortune, my husband was as adept as any of them at determining his own fate. It was just. . . Merritt made his own _bad_ fortune. He could turn the birth of a healthy daughter into a tragedy because the babe was not a son. He turned the birth of his son into an opportunity to further loath himself. When he endured that strike to his helm, back when he was a boy and a squire in service to House Crakehall, Lord Sumner didn’t think Merritt would survive. For a fortnight, he could not wake from his slumber. But against all expectation, Merritt recovered and lived. To anyone else, this would be a most fortuitous event, a miracle even, but not to the man he became. To my eventual husband, his salvation as a boy was yet another cause to drink and lament his bad luck.

 

“His life was saved!” Mariya shouted. The emotion, bottled and bridled for the gods knew how many years, came bursting out of her. It echoed within the walls of the sparse room. “He saw only that he would never be a knight! Merritt Frey couldn’t see past his headaches, past an inch from his own brow, to see the good fortune I tried to give him! He! He. . .”

 

Jon realized that he was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall he’d been leaning on several minutes earlier. Transfixed, he continued to watch and to listen.

 

“He. . . he took everything from me. He took. . . my life. . . and _hated_ that I gave him so little. I gifted my spirit to that man, only to watch him use it to wipe the wine-soaked slobber from his chin and discard it on the feasting-hall floor.”

 

Mariya Darry, a noble woman who should have been doting on grandchildren and a gaggle of nieces and nephews, was reduced to crying in front of a stranger.

 

 _I am closer to an enemy,_ Jon thought, _than a suitable confidant._ She hid her face in her hands. The woman’s shoulders shook with her sobs, but she didn’t make a sound.

 

Jon searched his mind for words of comfort to offer her. _Runestone,_ he recalled. _My reason for attending her._

 

“Yohn agreed to take you in!” he blurted.

 

She looked over at him. Her eyes were red, and her voice was hoarse when Lady Mariya asked, “What?”

 

“Lord Royce,” Jon told her more calmly. “He agreed to offer a place at Runestone. For you and your daughters.”

 

“Runestone?” she wondered. “He would do that?”

 

“Aye, my lady. Ryella Royce and her children will be sent there too, so your daughters will not be without at least some kin.” He added, “They will have to forswear the name, ‘Frey,’ but that is the only demand anyone will make of your Ami and. . . what was your other daughter’s name?”

 

“Marissa,” she answered. “My wonderful Marissa.”

 

Jon was surprised by the change in tone, and the matronly woman noticed.

 

She told him, “Marissa was just shy of six when I gave birth to my son. That her father aimed his disappointment at Little Walder, left Marissa free from the slightest attachment to him. I did all I could not repeat the mistakes I made with my older girls. I accepted that Merritt would never be a caring father. I decided that Marissa would know my brother, Raymun, and that nothing Merritt said would dissuade me.

 

“My husband insisted that he wouldn’t risk the one son I bore him by allowing Little Walder to ferry back and forth to Castle Darry. He told me, ‘It took you more than ten years to birth me a son. At your age and with my luck, you aren’t like to gift me with another, should this one drown.’ Back then, I still thought that I could turn Little Walder into a good lad. Thus, I never spent too long with my lord brother before returning to the Twins to care for my son. But, the visits to Darry were enough. Marissa saw that the infighting and slander of the Freys was not the way of good folk.

 

“Her Uncle Raymun was the father that Merrit never cared to be. Her adoring, younger cousin, Lyman Darry, was like the brother that Little Walder should have been. Learning what having kin who truly cared about you meant, _that_ was the thing which steered Marissa from the paths of her siblings and all her Frey cousins. . . Would that I had done the same for Ami and Walda.

 

“Ser Jon,” she said, waving him over.

 

Mariya Darry took his hand in both of hers. She interlaced her soft, wrinkled fingers with his. “Thank you, good ser. Please relay my gratitude to Lord Royce. Also, if you would be so kind, convey how easy a choice disavowing the name _Frey_ will be.”

 

* * *

 

Viserion landed first on her stocky, hind legs. Then, she folded in her winds and rested on her forelimbs too. She’d joined Jon on top of the gates of Castle Darry. _Taking flight from a high perch is easier for her than bounding into a take-off from the ground_.

 

When he stepped close, he found that she was no more eager to wear a saddle than she’d been the last time Jon had attempted to secure it to her back. Thus, he reached out to the scaly beast - with his hand and his mind. He kept her calm enough to align and buckle the straps across her chest. Once it was on, the she-dragon didn’t seem to mind it. He left off the chainmail barding that Allyn the smith had crafted for her, worrying over keeping the burden upon the dragon’s back as light as feasible. Ser Jon wore the black cloak with his personal coat of arms stitched into the wool and fur. Beneath it, he had on his boiled leather jerkin and mail. Jon carefully arraigned his helm and plate armor in a small, burlap pack. He wondered if he would need any other supplies, but decided against bringing anything besides his personal arms and armor. _If we must hunt, then we shall. I don’t intend to carry with me anything that’s better left here._

 

Jon’s thoughts drifted to what he chose to leave with Kyle Condon earlier that morn.

 

_Bones._

 

Though he trusted both Bronze Yohn and Lord Goodbrook, he felt better leaving his brother’s remains with a Northman. _Condon will take care; he has a better head for such things than Mallador Woolfield and he’s far more prudent than Greatjon Umber._

 

Though it felt guilty for him to acknowledge, Ser Jon was relieved to hand over that simple, wooden box. _And all it holds within,_ he thought. It was for Jon as if leaving behind that box allowed him, in part, to leave behind his grief for the loss of his brother.

 

Viserion bent low, and Jon climbed on her back. He couldn’t help the bashful smile that crossed his face, as he knew that half the castle was watching him from the courtyard below. _The other half watches as well, they just do so while hidden behind iron-framed windows._ Viserion pounced off the brown-rock gateway and thrust her wings out wide, catching a strong, autumn gust.

 

Jon slid back in the leathern saddle and bent over. He pressed his cheek against the heat of her scales.

 

_Follow the morning sun, dragon. Follow it up over the mountains._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews and comments and questions all welcome!


	51. Barristan - Fevered Dreams

Ser Barristan Selmy could remember the fight, but little else from the previous day.

 

_Has it only been one day, or longer than that? Regardless, the fights were always what I best remembered._

 

Someone held a cup of cool water to his lips. He felt hot and . . . thirsty, so very thirsty. Selmy drank too eagerly and struggled to stifle the cough in his lungs.

 

“Rest, ser knight,” he heard a tender voice instruct.

 

“But. . .” Barristan didn’t know what to ask her.

 

“Just rest. No talk for now.”

 

* * *

 

His thoughts drifted to his queen.

 

_Does she still live? Did the gods deign to take from her the gift they’d bestowed on me, the gift of long years?_

 

Barristan had seen before how the gods could overlook the people who most deserved to live.

 

He thought of Daenerys Stormborn’s father. _Has a more retched man ever lived?_

 

King Aerys Targaryen was long dead, but thinking ill of him still felt like a betrayal to Ser Barristan. _I kept to my vows. The Kingsguard protects the king; we do no judge._

 

If any other man had done what Aerys had, if only once, Barristan would have cut him down. _And how many good men did King Aerys burn? How many times did I hear the screams of his sister-wife?_

 

_What would Jaehaerys have thought of his mad son? What would he have thought of the choices I made?_

 

* * *

 

King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Second of His Name, was the son of Aegon the Fifth. He was clever and just. His temperament contained uncommon resiliency, but his body did not.

 

_Three years. He sat the Iron Throne for merely three years. He gave me a White Cloak, and I thought I’d spend a lifetime watching over him. It was only a year and some months into his reign that Jaehaerys Targaryen offered me the Kingsguard. . . and only a year and some months after that when my king died of whichever of his ailments it was that finally took him._

 

Jaehaerys’s son ruled for two-and-twenty years. The last seven of whichearned him his moniker, _The Mad King_.

 

_But, the realm could have been saved. Rhaegar was the remedy. He was his mother’s son, thoughtful and sad. His parents shared a father. . . and that was the man Prince Rhaegar’s personality truly favored, King Jaehaerys._

_And just as they had his grandfather, the Seven chose to take the lifesbreath from Rhaegar too soon._

 

_He was close. . . so very close. . ._

 

* * *

 

Ser Barristan found himself on the road to Harrenhal. King Aerys was in his litter, and Selmy was riding at its side. Aerys Targaryen believed the rumors that Rhaegar was planning to steal the Iron Throne out from under him.

 

 _It was Varys who convinced him of that,_ Barristan recalled. _If it had been a man with honor to tell King Aerys of his son gathering allies, I’d say he did it to uphold his duty. But the Spider? What would it have gained him to inform the Mad King?_

 

Soon, such thoughts evaporated into the ether. Selmy watched the crowds of smallfolk lining the Kingsroad and hoping to glimpse their ruler. Barristan eyed them, searching for any threat to his king. He didn’t know if the whispers of betrayal were true. No matter how fond he was of Rhaegar, Selmy would not have forsaken his sworn duty to the king.

 

_Thankfully, I never learned of Rhaegar’s plots, if indeed he had any. I was never forced to choose between the man I wished for my king and the king I’d knelt to._

_I am not Fireball._

 

* * *

 

Ser Quentyn Ball was the master-of-arms in the Red Keep during the reign of King Aegon, the Fourth of His Name.

 

 _Aegon the Unworthy_.

 

The Unworthy legitimized his bastards on his deathbed. Several years afterwards, succession of the Iron Throne came into question. Fireball stood by the king he wished for, instead of the true heir. He denied his duty to Prince Dareon Targaryen, choosing instead the bastard-born half-brother, Ser Daemon, as his king.

 

Daemon took the name of the Valyrian steel sword his father had gifted him, _Blackfyre,_ thereby founding the bastard branch of the Targaryen line, House Blackfyre.

 

_And so began the rebellions._

 

Ser Quentyn and others had said that Daemon Blackfyre was the one with the better claim. The rumors were that King Aegon’s wife gave him horns, and King Daeron Targaryen was neither a trueborn son, nor born of Aegon the Unworthy’s seed.

 

_The rumors in Fireball’s day were much the same as the rumors in mine: A knight of the Kingsguard bedding his queen. Was Daeron truly sired by the Dragonknight? Was Joffrey fathered by the Kingslayer?_

 

Ser Barristan wondered if he could believe what Magister Illyrio Mopatis had told him back in Pentos. _Back when I began posing as Arstan Whitebeard, squire to Strong Belwas._ Illyrio said that all three of the royal offspring, Joffrey, Myrcella, and young Tommen, were born of incest. Barristan wondered if he could have been so blind that he did not realize Jaime Lannister was bedding the queen.

 

_She was his twin, of course they would enjoy each other’s company and share a closeness._

 

Having never had a sibling of his own, Selmy was not the best choice to judge the closeness of brother and sister. _Ser Jaime and Queen Cersei seemed no closer than Ser Arthur Dayne and his sister, Lady Ashara._

 

At the sound of her name ringing through his thoughts, Barristan was back on the road to Harrenhal. His horse did not seem to be moving, but the black castle continued to edge closer.

 

Before the king’s train reached the gates, Ser Barristan found himself standing in Lord Whent’s Hall of the Hundred Hearths. He scanned the room of shadowy faces. Showing brightly amid the darkness, Ashara Dayne was laughing with her brother.

 

She was the most beautiful woman Ser Barristan Selmy had ever seen. In that moment, he wished he could have changed the most important choice of his life.

 

_If only I’d refused King Jaehaerys’s offer of the White Cloak. I’d have inherited Harvest Hall, instead of letting my father’s lands and castle pass to my cousin. The Daynes of Starfall are higher born than House Selmy of Harvest Hall, but not so different that a match would be impossible. Especially if I still earned my renown with a sword and lance, and still befriended Ser Arthur._

 

But at the memory of forgoing his inheritance, Barristan recalled the bride he was meant to take, the one who passed to his cousin, Arstan.

 

Ashara Dayne’s violet eyes caught sight of Barristan. She offered him an endearing smile and the world beyond her face disappeared to him. That smile and those eyes had a way of making him feel two-and-ten: all gangly limbs and nervous bashfulness and also courageous.

 

There was genuine warmth in her regard for Barristan the Bold, he knew. _But she sees me as an admiring old man. A friend of her brother, and one beaming with innocent affection towards her._

 

Suddenly, their gaze was broken. A younger man had stolen her attention while Barristan was caught in Ashara’s all-consuming glow.

 

_Brandon Stark._

 

Selmy watched the brash Northman lean closer to Ashara than was proper and whisper in her ear. The sight felt troubling and vaguely familiar, as if he knew what was to happen, but the memory washed through his grasp.

 

Ashara then went over to Brandon’s brother. With Ser Arthur at his side, Barristan thought the younger Stark shy and respectful. He watched the two of them dance. Arthur was speaking to him, but Ser Barristan could not hear the sound. The song and the vision of the dance played tricks with his senses.

 

As that song ended, the candles dimmed and the feasters disappeared from view.

 

_This night is ending. . ._

 

He realized that Ashara’s dance partner had changed. _They changed some minutes or, mayhaps, several hours ago._ Brandon Stark had taken his brother’s place, _his_ hand had settled on Ashara’s hip. The wine made their movements carefree and without deftness. Stark trained his eyes and cocky smile on her. Ashara’s laughs were louder and freer than was polite in noble company.

 

Barristan turned to see that Arthur was gone from his side. When he looked back at the center of the hall, Ashara and Stark were no longer there.

 

Selmy floated an inch off the ground.

 

His toes skimmed the stone as he traveled down a corridor and around a corner.

 

_There._

 

No light shown, but that didn’t hinder his sight. Selmy saw that her hands were fisted in his brown hair. Barristan was stunned and noiseless. . . until he spied Brandon Stark reach for the skirts of her dress. The Northman began to push them up, and Barristan shouted, “Ashara!”

 

She shoved the young man away in the darkness.

 

“Art?”

 

A moment later she recognized that the _other_ Kingsguard knight who looked after her had been the one to find her. Ashara Dayne looked contrite, and then she smiled at him. It was a grand-daughter’s smile. One a girl would use as an apology for being caught pilfering a sweet from the cupboard, right before offering to share it with her grandfather in exchange for him not mentioning anything to her mother.

 

_It’s pitiful how much I enjoy her smile. That she looks at me so differently from how I look at her carries no weight against the power of any affection from her._

 

Barristan turned to Brandon Stark and glared at him. The youth just laughed in return. Candles began to emanate orange light where there had been none.

 

 _She wasn’t yours to toy with,_ he thought.

 

Stark shrugged and Barristan believed the confrontation won.

 

The eldest son of Lord Rickard Stark then smirked, his face handsome and unconcerned. “Just because _you_ chose celibacy, Barristan, doesn’t mean you must needs walk about the castle imposing it on others.”

 

Stark pulled Ashara in for a kiss. Though quick and closed, it looked torrid in Selmy’s eyes. Brandon stepped back and gave her rump a pinch before he departed.

 

Ashara carefully held in her laughter, but Barristan could see the amusement shine in her eyes. She sighed and smiled at her protective knight, taking his arm.

 

“Oh, Ser Barristan, what is a Dornish woman to do with a noble knight like yourself keeping her honorable? You know, Arthur would have teased me mercilessly, but not objected to me having my fun with a wild Northerner like that one. You’re worse than our eldest brother, I swear it! If you and Allem had your way, I might find myself in a septry studying the Seven-Pointed Star amid cowled, old crones.”

 

For all that Brandon Stark had riled him, Barristan couldn’t resist falling into the joy of her teasing.

 

“My lady might do well to remember, as Lord of Starfall her brother would be within his rights to do just that. . . should a certain friend to House Dayne see fit to write to him.”

 

She slapped his arm in mock indignation, and they glided to the royal chambers. The pair found Ser Arthur and Princess Elia waiting for Ashara. She leaned up on her toes to kiss her escort’s bearded cheek. Barristan was glad for his whiskers, because he had no doubt that his cheeks were red beneath them.

 

Barristan Selmy turned to walk away, and a memory caught him by surprise. _I chased off Brandon Stark the once, but still he got Ashara with child. . . Was tonight the night it happened? The night when a daughter quickened in her womb? After the tourney, Ashara returned to King’s Landing with the royal procession. Stark. . . he went elsewhere._

_Unless it wasn’t. . ._

_No, it was Brandon and thus it must’ve been tonight. On this night a daughter begins to grow. . . The stillborn daughter whose death was the final measure of grief that proved too much for Ashara to bear. The grief which led her to. . . ._

 

He spun on his heels. Selmy intended to go back to the princess’s quarters and to stand-guard throughout the night.

 

Instead, Barristan was atop his courser, barreling at Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He remembered thinking that it was his duty to aim for the prince’s shield, so as to prevent injury. But the thought felt like a moment and a lifetime ago.

 

_You cannot fail this time, Selmy. Not this time. Just knock him from his horse and all will be right in the world._

 

Why this joust was so important had not yet entered his mind, only the importance itself.

 

He adjusted his lance, aiming for Rhaegar’s chest. Still, the prince won the tilt, his point shattering against Barristan’s shield and exploding into thousands of shards and splinters.

 

Ser Barristan was falling and falling. Knocked from his horse, his body fell through open sky. He sped through clouds, then treetops appeared on the edge of his upward view, then black towers covered the periphery. Just before he hit the ground, he was back in his saddle.

 

_This time I will defeat Rhaegar. This time all will be right in the world._

 

Barristan was terrified of failing yet again. He’d not been scared on his own behalf since he was a boy, and that was still true as he charged at Rhaegar. He feared for others. He raised his lance, aiming for the enameled steel of the prince’s winged helm.

 

_For my duty to my king and to the realm. For my love of Ashara, the love I never spoke of. For her life. Gods, if I can stop only one tragedy from coming to pass. . . With the strength of my back and the skill of my hand, let her be alright._

 

Again, Rhaegar’s lance landed on Barristan’s shield.

 

This time, though, Selmy did not even get close. Half the jousting list was still between them when Barristan felt the impact. _Rhaegar’s lance is forty yards long._

 

This time, Barristan hit the ground straight away.

 

This time, he watched Rhaegar crown the Stark sister before his wife, and in plain view of his royal father and the entire realm.

 

_I am so sorry, Ashara. For you, for the brother we lost, for your dearest friend and her children. . . for not being the man I should have been._

 

* * *

 

_Most men think me some conquering hero. But was I ever more than a simpleton with a sword?_

 

* * *

 

Barristan remembered rescuing King Aerys from his confinement during the Defiance of Duskendale. At the time, he was as proud as he’d ever been. In one stroke, he had avenged the death of his sworn brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, and saved his charge, the king.

 

Suddenly, he could feel the heat on his face as he stood in King Aerys’s throne room. _It was my duty to keep my king’s secrets and to banish any judgment of him. But. . . I stood by while good men and innocent women were burned for minor infractions or imagined treasons._

 

_Do I bear some fault for the sins of Aerys? Sins that he would never have had the chance to commit, if I hadn’t saved him._

 

Barristan Selmy’s actions during the Defiance of Duskendale were not his only heroics during a lifetime of service. He’d conquered the island of Old Wyk for King Robert Baratheon during the Greyjoy Rebellion. _A harsh, inhospitable lump of rock, barely worth the trouble of retaking from a race of thieves and rapers._

 

The bearded face of the drunkard king pushed through the mist in his mind. Barristan questioned his decision to remain in the Kingsguard, in service to a usurper and a rebel. _I’ve questioned that decision countless times since setting out to find Daenerys Targaryen._

 

Robert was half the man Jaehaerys was, but still a far better king than Aerys. . . or the boy, Joffrey.

 

_The Kingslayer’s son._

 

_Could I have done as Jaime Lannister did if it was I in the throne room with the king? Could I have slain Aerys to spare King’s Landing one last act of madness? Should I have?_

_I’ve killed better men than him._

 

_Maelys Blackfyre._

_He is the one they’ll remember me for. The smallfolk love their tales of Barristan the Bold defeating Maelys the Monstrous, therein ending the campaign of the Ninepenny Kings._

 

Barristan saw himself seated on a horse. He was wearing the brown and beige of House Selmy, not the pure white of the Kingsguard. He was on the far right end of a line of a hundred lords and knights. They were waiting half way down a gently sloping hill. The sea was close enough to smell, but not so close that he could see it.

 

 _The parley,_ he remembered.

 

The leaders of the enemy host approached. Barristan watched the much smaller emissary party.

 

The man who led them was broad through the chest and rode a black destrier. He wore plate armor that was enameled in red, but well-scarred from years of use in battle.

 

_Maelys Blackfyre._

 

 _So bold, I was then,_ Selmy thought. _I was looking for a misshapen demon, but all I saw was a man._

 

Preparing to address the parley, Maelys the Monstrous removed his helm. Barristan craned his neck from the far edge of the party line to get a glimpse of him. The claimant to the throne was said to have two heads and that he ate his twin while growing in his mother’s womb.

 

Ser Barristan thought he saw a bump or large wart bulging from the man’s neck, but it was nothing like what he’d heard.

 

_Maelys stared right down our diplomatic assembly of forty high lords and more than sixty anointed knights, and he did not flinch._

 

Barristan tried to recognize the men with Blackfyre. He saw the Ebon Prince of the Summer Isles and the wayward, warrior-prince of Pentos. Five others at Blackfyre’s side he couldn’t name.

 

 _I count only eight,_ Barristan’s younger self thought. _Missing one of your penny-kings aren’t you?_ _Fled before the fight?_

 

 _No,_ he told himself. _These are no cowards you face. The absent one of their band is Alequo Adarys, who rules as the new archon in Tyrosh - the city they’ve already conquered. Even after all his allies are vanquished, he will hold it for six more years. These men sacked the Disputed Lands and took the Stepstones. And, if not for you, they might have continued their conquest into Westeros._

 

“My lords!” Barristan heard. “I invite you to join with me!”

 

_Maelys._

 

The men on Selmy’s side of the encounter scoffed.

 

“You bow to the wrong king,” Blackfyre declared in his thunderous voice. “I carry the sword of my bloodline! The sword Aegon the Conqueror wielded when he united Westeros and forged the Iron Throne! This sword was passed from Aegon the Fourth to his son and chosen heir, Daemon Blackfyre. Here I stand as the grandson of Daemon and true heir to the Iron Throne!”

 

_He thinks his cause just, his claim rightful._

 

After a moment of darkness, Barristan was amidst a battle. Through the slit of his helm, he watched his sword cut through the air, unattached to his hand or arm. The mane of his horse bristled as he charged through the chaos.

 

 _Maelys. Find Maelys,_ Selmy heard his younger self think.

 

Barristan the Bold cut down knights, sellswords, and foreign warriors as he closed in on his enemy.

 

_There._

 

Resplendent in red and black, Blackfyre fought. Barristan steadied himself in his saddle as he found a clearing within the battle. He looked around to discover that he was far beyond the battle lines of his side. Few fighting for his king were this deep in the enemy formation. Selmy saw the other men who’d followed him into the Ninepenny ranks surrounded by the Golden Company. Blackfyre crossed swords with an old and famed knight of House Fossoway. After what seemed like only moments, Maelys laid low Ser Raymun the Green Apple.

 

“Maelys the Monstrous!” Barristan heard a young man’s voice shout. “I challenge you! I name you and your House bastards all! Face me!”

 

Maelys’s men began to encircle Ser Barristan.

 

“If you mean to be king, I won’t be the last knight you’ll have to kill! The Seven Kingdoms will never bend the knee to a craven!”

 

Blackfyre signaled for his men to make way.

 

“But, Your Grace!” one of them shouted.

 

With a hand and no words, Maelys commanded him to be silent.

 

“Who is this bold knight before me?”

 

The young man laughed. “That is what they call me! Ser Barristan Selmy, Barristan the Bold!”

 

“I’ll not shy from a challenge, ser,” the pretender-king answered in his crisp, booming voice. “This is my fight,” he told his knights and mercenaries. “There is no honor in deceit, and none of you shall interfere.”

 

Barristan watched the man he once was charge.

 

Selmy’s and Blackfyre’s sword-cuts both missed. They spun their mounts and on the second pass, their shields collided. Circling, they exchanged and deflected strikes. Both were quick and strong, but Maelys Blackfyre was the stronger and Barristan Selmy the quicker.

 

_I thought myself invincible. I don’t remember being so fast with a blade, nor so wild. If only I could put the discipline and training I have now into the boy I was then._

 

They made little progress until Barristan felt a sting in the side of his neck.

 

 _A crossbow bolt,_ he remembered.

 

Maelys scanned over the ranks of his men. “Who shot that?” he demanded, but received no answer. Blackfyre allowed Selmy a moment to back his horse away.

 

The wound to the side of his neck was bloody, but not fatal. Ser Barristan removed his great-helm. He looked inside the helmet to find that the long, bodkin arrowhead was caught, and the tip stuck through. He knew he could wear it no longer. _Unless I mean to slit my own throat when I turn my head._ Barristan discarded the helm.

 

Selmy watched Maelys lift his own helm, garnished with red scales, from his head. The red and black great-helm had a rounded protrusion of steel on its right side. From this vantage, Barristan could see the hairless lump on the neck of Maelys Blackfyre which the helmet’s bulge accounted for.

 

Barristan’s eyes focused on the man’s face. His hair was thin and much of it grey. A score of silvery scars from decades of fighting in the Golden Company decorated him from collar to brow. Though not a handsome man, Blackfyre carried himself with poise and determination.

 

_He looks just as monarchal as he does in my dreams._

 

Barristan’s blue eyes followed Maelys’s black ones as the pretender prince looked for his squire. In some show of honor, Maelys Blackfyre threw away his helm.

 

“Fool,” the younger Barristan whispered.

 

_Gallant. . . and mayhaps unwise. . ._

 

Their swords resumed their dance. The parries of Selmy’s blade began to catch _Blackfyre_ sooner and sooner into its strikes.

 

Aegon the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel kept deflecting Barristan’s castle-forged metal later and later into the brazen knight’s attacks.

 

Barristan realized he was simply too quick, too skillful for his opponent. He landed a cut to the chink in Maelys’s shoulder pauldron. Next, his blade opened a gash above the man’s ear. Blood poured from it, and still Maelys fought.

 

“Stay back, I said!” Maelys Blackfyre did not take his eyes off of Barristan’s sword, even as he shouted to his men.

 

An overhand cut found its mark on the blood-red armor of his foe’s sword arm. _The sword_ , Barristan thought, as Maelys’s Valyrian steel fell to the mud.

 

With his heels, Selmy steered his horse up against his foe’s. Blackfyre was off balance, and Barristan thrust his sword into his opponent’s collar.

 

The bloody king crashed into Ser Barristan and pulled Selmy down with him.

 

The ground was muddy from hooves and spilled blood. Grappling in the muck, Barristan stole the dagger on Maelys’s hip before the pretender-king could draw it.

 

The fearsome man shook his head.

 

_He wasn’t going for the blade. He knows his wound is fatal and his end near._

 

“Do you yield?” Barristan asked.

 

Maelys waved off the knights approaching. The man turned his head to the side and spit.

 

“Too late for that, young ser,” he said. He tried to angle himself to meet the eyes of his captains, but couldn’t. On his back, Blackfyre aimed his orders towards the sky, “Make for the ships. _Do it!_ While. . . you are still able.”

 

Selmy’s only focus was on his fallen enemy. “Is it over then? Your rebellion?”

 

Maelys’s eyes found Barristan’s. _They are purple from this close. Deep and dark purple._

 

“I have no sons, no nephews. My House is at an end. . .”

 

He struggled to slow his breathing. Maelys Blackfyre told Selmy, “After today, you will be a famed knight. ‘A great man,’ many will say. Men will desire your respect and listen to your words in a way like. . . they never have before. I ask. . . one task of you. . .”

 

Selmy nodded.

 

“The girl. . . my little girl. . . leave her be. Please, use whatever influence you gain from my death to see that the lords in your army do not mount a search across the Narrow Sea for her. And if. . . if they do not know of her, please. . . keep silent, ser.”

 

_A daughter. . . I never learned what happened to her, but I never broke trust with Maelys._

_Well,_ Barristan Selmy thought, _I never had to. Whenever asked about House Blackfyre in the years following, I said only, “Maelys had no sons, no nephews.” No one questioned me further. It wasn’t long after the War of the Ninepenny Kings that people stopped asking about Blackfyres. The man ceased being a sellsword, a knight, or a prince in the tales. He became simply, ‘Maelys the Monstrous,’ a creature for fables. From then on, all anyone wished to know about was the strike that killed him and his second head._

 

“How will I know her?” young Barristan asked.

 

Maelys looked up. “Shaera Blackfyre is her name.” Blood stained the dying man’s teeth into a dark red, but his smile was strangely affable. “You’ll not find a second head on her,” he japed. “She takes after her mother and the great women of my heritage. Fierce blue eyes, golden hair streaked with silver. . .”

 

Watching the man who might have been king, had he only ordered his men to converge, Barristan asked, “Why fight me at all? Furthermore, why take off your helm when a stray arrow ruined mine?”

 

Maelys Blackfyre schooled the expression on his bloody face.

 

“You ask me, _‘Why?’”_ he said, as if the answer was obvious. “For honor. . . to be an honorable man. The arrow might well have been fired by one of _my_ archers. . . I was to be king. . . If I was not a man of honor, a man of greatness. . . then what was the point? What would have been the point to all of this, if I was not equal to . . .  to. . . the throne for which I fought?”

 

Barristan Selmy remembered watching the light leave those purple eyes.

 

_And then I closed his eyelids for him._

 

As the field of battle faded from Barristan Selmy’s view, he thought, _Maelys the Monstrous. . . the finest man I ever crossed swords with._

 

* * *

 

Ser Barristan opened his own eyes and saw the curtained bed of Queen Daenerys.

 

_May the Father grant her wisdom. . . The Mother. . . mercy for her sins. . . The Warrior. . . strength enough to defeat her enemies. . . The Maiden. . ._

 

Ser Barristan Selmy, a knight of the Kingsguard to three kings and one queen, felt his eyelids slowly close and darkness gently surround him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy any other Winter holiday you happen to celebrate!
> 
> And thanks for reading!


	52. Sansa - An Arrival at the Gates

Sansa Stark was sitting with Myranda Royce on one side of the solar that was first Lord Nestor’s, then Lord Petyr’s, then Ser Brynden’s, before changing hands once again. The wide, warm room with its low, stone ceilings and leaded glass windows now acted as a shared solar for Lady Sansa and Albar Royce, the High Steward of the Vale and tacit regent for Lord Robert Arryn in the Ser Brynden Tully’s absence.

 

Randa’s brother occupied his table at his customary side of the solar, though on this morning he and Maester Coleman were instructing Sweetrobin, rather than reviewing ledgers for the Gates of the Moon and the army that Ser Symond Templeton and Lady Anya Waynwood were assembling.

 

_Thack!_

 

Sansa and Randa looked up at the sound. Lord Robert began to rub the back of his hand. He stared over at her with watery eyes. Sansa turned her back to her young cousin.

 

 _No,_ she told herself. _Do not comfort him. He needs this discipline. Albar knows what he is about. He said that Lord Nestor taught him like this when he was Sweetrobin’s age._

 

They’d discussed using a wooden spoon to rap the boy on the hand more than once. She was not wholly comfortable with such measures and had found that a softer approach was best when dealing with a resistant Sweetrobin. However, Albar was certain that doing thusly would bear fruit in the little lordling’s maturation.

 

“My. . . my. . . my!” Sansa heard from across the solar. She immediately sprang to her feet and rushed over to the boy. Albar already had a thick hand pressed gently against Robert’s chest, holding him in his seat.

 

“Maester?” Sansa asked, not finishing her thought.

 

Maester Coleman replied, “Just Lord Robert’s shaking sickness, my lady. There is nothing for us to do until it passes.”

 

“But, Sweetrobin has been so much better of late. His fits are far less frequent.”

 

“Yes, yes,” agreed Coleman, whom Sansa regarded as quite young for his position, considering the age difference between him and Maester Luwin. “I leeched our lord only two days ago. It’s too soon for another regimen of treatment. He’s been sleeping better ever since we left the Eyrie, needing no sweetsleep to quell his nightmares of singers inside the walls.”

 

From across the solar, Sansa heard Randa quip, “I’d wager that the end of his _regimen_ of breast milk helps in no small part.”

 

_Regardless, Sweetrobin needs to be carried to bed. When he wakes, he’ll be in no mood for more lessons. And, he might not wake for hours._

 

Robert Arryn’s shaking fit dragged on.

 

The burly, young knight stood facing Sweetrobin, now with both hands pressed to the boy’s torso. Sansa knelt beside the chair and patted Lord Robert’s hand. Coleman stood to the side of Albar Royce, doing nothing.

 

She looked up at Albar. “My lord,” she addressed the young man, who didn’t respond.

 

“My lord?” Sansa repeated, amidst Robert’s convulsions.

 

“Lord Albar?” she tried.

 

“Oh,” he said, with embarrassment coloring his face. “If you’d said, ‘Ser,’ I’d have known straight off that you meant me, Lady Sansa. _Lord Albar_ is still-”

 

Royce paused as one of Robert’s wild arms collided with his nose. Rubbing it with his left hand, he finished, “The title is still so new. My father was always _my lord,_ not me.”

 

Though he held no lands, Albar Royce was granted the title of lord in the same way his father had been; it was an honorary title given to the High Steward of the Vale. Lord or knight, Sansa needed his help to get Robert Arryn to his bed. Maester Coleman scurried off on his thin legs to make a cold compress of ointments for the boy’s forehead. Meanwhile, Albar picked up Robert, and Sansa tried to keep the boy’s limbs from striking either of them. Together, they walked just down the hall to Sweetrobin’s chambers.

 

Sansa said, “Don’t worry about the sheets, my lord. He will just toss them off in a minute or two.”

 

Lord Albar inclined his head to her, then set the thin boy atop his furs and blankets.

 

Royce wiped his brow and smiled his toothy grin at Sansa. She giggled at the way the one snaggle-tooth at the corner of his smile made him look more like a boy of one-and-ten than a man of two-and-twenty. When his face looked like that, she could imagine him as Randa’s little brother.

 

The maester came bursting in and circled around Albar, while trying to keep hold of various phials in one hand and a damp cloth in the other. “I’ll tend to him,” said Coleman.

 

“As you say, maester,” agreed Albar. He turned his broad shoulders and offered Sansa his arm. She took it, and they left the shaking lord to his caretaker.

 

The walk to their solar was only ten or so paces. After she let go of his arm, Sansa ambled over to retake her seat next to Randa, and Albar returned to his desk.

 

Lady Myranda looked at her strangely, so Sansa distracted herself by reaching under the table to stroke Ghost’s fur. The direwolf had seemed to miss Jon keenly when he first departed. Though he still appeared to long for the company of his master, each day he became increasingly accustomed to Sansa as his companion. Occasionally, she found herself unsure of what to do with him. Some evenings, he appeared to want desperately to be let out of the keep for the night, but whenever Sansa walked him to the entrance, he wouldn’t leave. Except for a few brief breaks from her during the day, the white direwolf followed along like a silent sentry.

 

“Randa?”

 

Ghost’s ears perked at Albar’s voice, and Sansa looked across the room.

 

“Randa,” he said again. “Can you tell me what this says? I can’t make head or tail from what Coleman wrote here.”

 

Myranda and Sansa both walked over to him. He handed to them the bound parchment, and they stared at it.

 

“It would help to know what it’s about,” Randa said. “What is this regarding, Albie?”

 

He reddened at the childish nickname.

 

Sansa saved him. “I think Maester Coleman titled this section, ‘Cattle feed stores from summer.’ See? He just spaced the letters awkwardly.”

 

“ _Cattle feed_ ,” Albar said in reply. “Yes! My thanks, my lady.”

 

Randa put her hands on her hips. “Is that all?”

 

He nodded, but a look in his eyes lingered.

 

“What is it?” asked the elder sibling. “Out-with-it,” she stated rhythmically.

 

“It’s just. . . Well, Lord Redfort will be here within days, and Ser Symond and Lady Waynwood are already waiting. They’re looking for me to feed their levies, but I have to keep our grains and such for winter. What am I supposed to do when they are issuing orders and I don’t have enough?”

 

Randa rolled her eyes. “You are a lord now, Albar,” she reminded him. “You can tell Ser Templeton to take that beak-nose of his and go frig a goose with it. You weigh three-stone more than old Lord Redfort and stand a head taller than any of his sons. If they flap their lips at you, smack each of them in the mouth.” She shook her head. “Gods be good, Albar.”

 

Crimson faced, he said, “Then, would you. . . ?” Albar gestured for Randa to sit across from him. She did so, and Sansa followed.

 

They discussed provisions for both the army outside the Gates of the Moon and the household within. Randa pointed at the records of their food stores. “See these figures that you tallied? You counted grain by the barrel, cured beef by the slab, salted beef by the palate, and half a hundred other units for everything else. How long does a barrel of flour last in a garrison of a hundred men? What about fifty barrels? Hmm?”

 

Sansa heard the condescension in Randa’s tone. She could see Lord Albar’s spirits changing from embarrassed to angry. Sansa nudged Myranda’s elbow.

 

She laughed and waved Sansa off. “My lord brother can handle my questions, Sansa. Furthermore,” she said, glancing at him, “my point is that you must needs use counts that you will understand. In running father’s household, I thought of food by the meal. If I were to feed the guard, the servants, and everyone else a supper of only bread, how much would I need? That was what I called a ‘meal-worth’ when I organized the kitchens. If you are to be High Steward, you need to record everything like that.” She smirked at him and added, “ _My lord._ ”

 

“Come Sansa,” she said as she stood up. “Let’s get back to what I was teaching you on the history of the Eyrie.”

 

Sansa Stark nodded and got to her feet. Before turning to follow Myranda, she inclined her head to the High Steward of the Vale.

 

“Lady Sansa,” he said with a nod.

 

 _“Lord Albie,”_ she returned with a sly grin.

 

* * *

 

An unfamiliar sound stirred Sansa Stark from her sleep. She shot up in her bed. For a moment, Sansa wasn’t certain whether the noise had been real or merely part of a dream.

 

_Is it morning yet?_

 

Sansa threw her legs out from under her blankets. Rather than landing on the sheepswool rug, her feet found direwolf fur. As she tripped over Ghost, Sansa heard the sound from her dream again, a piercing shriek that trumpeted the dawn.

 

_Jon’s dragon._

 

Throwing on a woolen robe and slinging a fur cloak across her back, she raced down to the courtyard. A chill in the air and a golden glow through the treetops accompanied Viserion. Sansa gasped when she saw that the dragon carried Ser Jon on her back. Together, mount and rider whirled to an early morning landing. He jumped off the she-dragon and ran across the frosted ground to Sansa.

 

She laughed in her surprise as Jon spun her around.

 

When he set her down, she asked, “Jon, did you. . . Did you _ride_ Viserion all the way back?!”

 

“Not _all_ the way,” he answered.

 

Jon expelled a cough from his stomach, as Ghost barreled into him. With both hands buried in his direwolf’s shaggy, winter coat, he told Sansa, “Bronze Yohn and I picked out a way-stop of sorts along the Trident. But, this here dragon did well to carry me over the mountains.”

 

“You must be freezing,” she said. “Let me get you inside.”

 

He held out his armored hands. When she took them, Jon’s gauntlets were hot to the touch. Sansa drew back her hands and gasped, “Gods!”

 

“Dragons are fire made flesh, Sansa. Everyone knows that. I might have frozen if not for her warmth. All the same, _my lady sister_ , I’ll see Viserion to the barn and meet you for a mug of mulled wine.”

 

* * *

 

When Jon joined her in the main hall, a serving girl presented them with hot, spiced wine, and Sansa poured for her bastard brother. She then asked the girl to send for the stableboys to bring a generous portion of goat out to the cracked-stone barn.

 

Seeing his face, Sansa thought he looked rejuvenated. “You look well, ser,” she told him.

 

“As do you, _my lady._ ”

 

He balled his hand into a fist and held it against his chest. “I did it, Sansa. The Twins is a pile of rubble at the bottom of a river. We took Darry, too.”

 

“Darry?”

 

“Aye,” he replied. “We thought to take Kevan Lannister’s family hostage, so we might sue for peace and an exchange to spare Ser Edmure.” Jon corrected himself, _“Lord_ Edmure.” He continued, “But, all we found were his son’s good-family. Lord Kevan’s wife and kin are split between King’s Landing and Lannisport.”

 

“Kevan Lannister? We received word that he died under suspicious means, Jon. Somebody might have killed him.”

 

Jon said, “Yes, Sansa. We didn’t hear of it until _after_ we’d taken the castle.”

 

In spite of the failure of his plan to capture Lancel Lannister or Ser Kevan’s wife, Jon’s demeanor seemed unusually positive. Wondering about the change in his disposition since she last she saw him, Sansa asked, “But, was there other news? Is that why you’re so happy?”

 

_Did you hear something about Arya?_

 

“I’ve just been thinking, that’s all.”

 

 _Of course he didn’t hear anything about her. Jon would have said that first._ Sansa didn’t let her face disclose her thoughts. “About what, ser?”

 

He slid off his gauntlets and set them on the table. He then stroked his fingers through his beard.

 

_It’s thicker than it was before._

 

“About many things. . .” Jon said. “Some of those things, I learned from someone who years ago endured what you and I have. She takes comfort in what little family she has left. Because _that_ is what matters, Sansa. We’ve lost so much. We have so much grief, you and I. I had to leave. . .”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I left _my grief_ at Castle Darry.” After a moment of emotion that Sansa didn’t understand, Jon continued, “All is not lost, Sansa. _That_ is what I learned.”

 

She was happy to see this shift in her half-brother, even if she couldn’t understand it fully.

 

Eager to talk about something else, he said, “Remember when you, Ser Brynden, Lord Yohn, and I were talking about you getting married? And about you being named queen?”

 

 _Taking a husband_ , she thought with relative dread. “Yes,” she answered. “I remember.”

 

“I think you should be queen, Sansa.” He grasped her hand. “A _real_ queen. The riverlords should renew the oaths they made to Robb. And then. . . then, the Northern lords should too.”

 

She regarded him skeptically.

 

 _“I mean it,”_ Jon stated with a half-smile.

 

Not only his beard was shaggier, but his hair as well. Jon pushed a wisp of hair from his face. Sansa thought that her half-brother’s mess of dark tangles and curls desperately needed to be trimmed.

 

“But about a marriage,” he continued in a sterner tone. “You don’t need a king protecting you. Aye, you will need the protection of the lords governing your lands, but so does every ruler - a king or a queen. You’ll also need the protection of your guardsmen, but so did Father and every king who ever lived. What you do not need, Sansa, is some man lording over you, making a miserable servant out of his queen. Some man who wants only to improve his station with your hand. . . Who will take you for granted and take from you your life and spirit, only to disregard them like a soiled rag cloth.”

 

Jon’s words didn’t make her any more eager to swear herself to any man. The last part of his statement seemed to weigh him down, but Jon schooled his solemn face. Sounding firm, but optimistic, he told her, “You’ve destroyed your most bitter enemy, Sansa. You have retaken the most important castle in _your_ kingdom.”

 

“Jon, _Winterfell_ is the most important, not Riverrun. Besides, you and Lord Yohn destroyed the Twins; Uncle Brynden freed Riverrun. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

 

He shook his head at her. “Everything Brynden, Yohn, and I did was _in your name._ You were part of our planning. The trade offer was your idea.”

 

Jon lightened his expression. “Other sovereigns have done less than that and not hesitated to claim the _king’s_ share of the glory.”

 

He tossed back the last sip of his mug. Sansa reached over, intending to refill it, but Jon grasped the flagon and did so himself. “It is _you_ who can lead us, Sansa. It can be no one else. You are not only the Queen in the North, but also the Queen of the Trident. House Tully and the riverlords pledged their fealty to Robb and the North. You have a claim to Riverrun through your mother’s blood. Ser Edmure is not yet returned to us, we don’t know whether the child Lady Roslin carries will be healthy or stillborn, and the Blackfish has no children. You are somewhere in that line of succession as. . . as one of only _three_ surviving grandchildren of Lord Hoster Tully.”

 

_Only me and Sweetrobin. . . and by the Mother’s mercy, I pray Arya too._

 

Jon smiled at her, but it appeared forced. “The lords of the Vale will add their arms to our fight. They tried to convince Lady Lysa to side with Riverrun and Robb from the start. And now, Lord Royce has led the razing of the Twins. Men from the personal guard of both Anya Waynwood and Ser Symond Templeton followed Ser Brynden. Our sieges were acts of rebellion against the Lannisters.  You see, Sansa? The Vale has sided with you against the Iron Throne already, it only remains for them to declare it openly. Besides, the Lord of the Eyrie already looks to you like a mother. He’ll call his banners for you if you tell him to.

 

“The North and Winterfell,” Jon said. “You are the rightful queen of the first and lady of the second.”

 

“What about Robb’s will? The one that Uncle Brynden talked about?”

 

“Benjen won’t abandon his oath, and the Night’s Watch cannot inherit, anyway. No, Robb named him because he didn’t have any other choice. Now, Sansa, we _do_ have a better choice.”

 

“But if I marry. . .”

 

Her brother shook his head again.

 

“If you find a husband worthy of you as both a highborn match and as an honorable and kind man, your children will be _Starks_. In the history of the Seven Kingdoms, a son taking his mother’s name to continue her House is not so rare.” He grinned, and the look seemed genuine. “That, in fact, is more in-line with tradition than legitimizing a bastard to continue a House. Even though I paid special attention to tales of bastards during Maester Luwin’s teachings on history, I can remember more examples of the first way, Sansa.”

 

_It wasn’t so long ago when I thought they were going to make me carry a Lannister in my belly._

 

She voiced a different worry, “If I marry. . . say. . . Willas Tyrell, would I have to move to Highgarden? If this Aegon Targaryen. . . that could mean. . . King’s Landing.”

 

“Spit on that, _Your Grace._ ” Jon looked her in the eye. “You’ll chose a man who will move to follow _you._ Maybe an ally’s gentle-hearted second son would do.”

 

_Is that how it would happen? A marriage to someone brave and gentle and strong._

 

Jon pushed against the table and got to his feet. He smiled at her, for a moment looking once more like the boy she knew in Winterfell. _The carefree side of him that I haven’t seen in more than two years._

 

He flicked his matted hair off his brow and mirthfully cheered, “A boy with perfumed oils in his hair.”

 

He pressed a finger into each side of his face. “And rosy cheeks with dimples.”

 

Sansa would have liked a better explanation of why Jon was so cheerful, but she had no desire to interrupt his show of happiness.

 

He picked up his gauntlets from the table and stepped back from the bench. Jon held the armored gloves as if they were a dancing partner’s hands. “A man who is not above prancing about a queen’s gala,” he said, sliding his feet towards the door.

 

Before his last step out of the hall, her brother dipped his imaginary dancing partner and said, “We’ll find you the fanciest of lordlings, and you shall eat lemon pastries all day and dance away your evenings!”

 

Sansa waited for him to be out of earshot before letting loose her laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, complaints, and anything else, I would appreciate any of it in the comments!
> 
>  
> 
> Fun, not profit. GRRM owns everything of Ice and Fire.


	53. Sansa - Small Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a long, slow-paced chapter focused on Sansa Stark building up her alliance.

Before supper that night, Sansa Stark told Sweetrobin’s squires, Gyles Grafton and Terrance Lynderly, to rearrange the tables in the solar she shared with Albar Royce. The boys followed her instructions without the resistance they’d shown her when she was only _Alayne Stone_. After the room was set, she said, “You have my thanks, squires. Now, find Ser Jon, Lord Albar, Lady Myranda, Lady Waynwood, and Ser Symond Templeton, and please ask them if they wouldn’t mind meeting me here.”

 

The boys nodded at her and ran off.

 

She wondered if all five would arrive. _Jon will,_ she knew. _So will Randa and Albar, most like. But what of Lady Anya and Ser Symond?_

 

Sansa stood behind the table on the far side of the room from the doorway. She knew that it made for a grander image than if she set up anywhere else. Her own seat was on one side of the desk and table, and the other chairs were near the opposite end. In essence, she would be sitting alone and facing the five she’d asked to meet her.

 

Looking down, she glanced at the back page of Ser Brynden’s last letter, which arrived at the rookery only the day before.

 

_. . . depends upon what you want in that role. I would choose someone trustworthy and merely capable, over one more skilled, but whose allegiance is questionable. Once the Riverlands are more settled, my choice would be Tytos Blackwood. . ._

 

Randa arrived first. “Lady Sansa,” she said with a curtsey and an exaggerated air of refinement. “How ever shall I thank you for the honor of attending so noble a lady as yourself?”

 

Sansa had grown fond of the amusing, and even ribald, young woman. Randa Royce had been gloomy immediately after her father’s death. However, each day she took back a piece more of the person she was beforehand. Sansa respected her resilience.

 

“Shush, Randa! This will be serious talking. I have to make decisions about things.”

 

Myranda Royce began another question, but was interrupted by Lady Anya and Ser Symond. Sansa considered Symond Templeton an older knight, but he was at least a decade younger than Ser Brynden Tully. His blue eyes looked younger than his years and his pointed, black chin-beard balanced out his long nose. Anya Waynwood wore a green dress with black trim and long, loose sleeves. Her greying hair was neatly tied back. She entered with her wrists crossed in front of her, which joined the hems of her sleeves.

 

_What should I say to them?_

 

“My lady,” Sansa said, with a slight nod, “and ser.”

 

They greeted her, but neither of them said anything more. Silence hung between them.

 

Fortunately, the moment was broken by Jon and Albar. Sansa hadn’t realized that she’d been holding her breath. She let the air escape her chest and welcomed everyone to take whatever places they like.

 

The pair of young men were the first to approach the chairs. Albar was the broader and taller of the two. He stood a hand taller than six feet with a wide chest and thick arms. Jon was only a hair taller than six feet. Compared to Albar Royce, Sansa’s half-brother looked lean, especially around his neck.

 

She noticed that Jon was wearing a different jerkin than when he returned. _On each shoulder,_ Sansa noticed, _a portcullis, a half-moon, and runes._ She thought it was nice that Albar provided Jon with something clean to wear in place of his soiled leather.

 

With everyone seated, Sansa Stark said to the squires, “Terrance and Gyles, a flagon of wine would do well for my guests and a cup of water for me.”

 

Lady Waynwood began the talk with the assembly, “Lady Stark, I thank you for the honor of your invitation.” Sansa saw Randa suppress a grin. “But, why, pray tell are we here?”

 

“I thank you and everyone else for coming so quickly, my lady,” Sansa Stark replied. “Much has happened in the last day and one half: Ser Jon and Viserion arrived, as did another raven from Riverrun.

 

“I. . .” she hesitated. _Just as you practiced._ “I mean to be queen, to be my brother Robb’s heir. And so, I must needs appoint councilors.”

 

Jon spoke up, “Very good, Your Grace.”

 

“Isn’t this a matter for Northmen?” asked Anya Waynwood.

 

Albar Royce looked at the woman from Ironoaks and questioned, “My lady?”

 

“If she means to name herself ‘Queen in the North,’ won’t lords of _that_ kingdom be the ones best suited for her council?”

 

“She is queen of more than that,” Jon said flatly.

 

_You can do this. You only need to speak._

 

“I am not _in_ the North, no matter how much I wish it. The Riverlands named Robb their king after he broke the siege of Riverrun. My men just freed that same castle. I am my brother’s heir. The North and the Riverlands are mine to protect.”

 

“And the Vale?” asked Lady Anya.

 

Sansa looked the older woman in the eye. “My lady, the Vale prepares to take up arms for my kingdom. Lord Regent Brynden Tully believes that the Vale should formally join as our allies.”

 

“The Gates of the Moon would follow,” said Lord Albar. Though she’d not directed a question to him, she was glad to hear the simple statement of support.

 

Templeton pinched his pointed beard between his fingers. “Do be hasty, Ser Albar. Speaking without thinking is the vice of red-faced boys and bellbirds. The Gates belong to House Arryn.”

 

He then offered, “However. . . I all but swore as much when I gave the Blackfish men of my guard to help him win back Riverrun. I further committed down that slope when I told Bronze Yohn I’d ready the levies of Ninestars. Now that I’m preparing to lead contingents from throughout the Vale, each riding or sailing this way, my dice are cast, my lady.”

 

Sansa wasn’t sure what he meant.

 

He saw her face and said, “The Vale has already taken up arms against the Iron Throne. We did that the moment Yohn attacked the Twins, and again when Brynden did likewise for Riverrun. Sure,” Templeton told her with a wry smirk, “the Lords Declarant could renounce Yohn Royce and send King Tommen your head, but I’d rather we fight for you.”

 

Jon asked him, “Ser, would you be the first to swear an oath to Queen Sansa?”

 

He thought on it a moment, then answered, “My House owes its allegiance to Lord Arryn. I cannot in good faith make an oath to any other cause.”

 

Sansa was waiting for Lady Waynwood to speak. She assumed the woman to be thinking, but did not want to look right at her.

 

Finally, Anya said, “Lord Arryn is just a boy. It is nonsense to put the fate of the Vale in his tiny hands. No, the choice of whether to go to war lies with his regent. What do Ser Brynden and Lord Yohn wish to do?”

 

Sansa replied, “Before he set off for the Twins, Lord Royce said in our meeting that he wanted to fight for the honor of the Vale in the face of liars and oathbreakers.”

 

“And Brynden Tully?”

 

Stark carried the Blackfish’s letter around the table and pointed out the part about wanting to support her as _Queen of the North and the Riverlands._

 

After scanning the parchment, Waynwood protested, “The Blackfish only writes about _intending_ for Sansa to inherit the Young Wolf’s fledgling kingdom. He makes no actual pledge or mention of an army of riverlords.”

 

Templeton asked for the letter and read the same passage. “When we joined together as the Lords Declarant, we agreed upon Bronze Yohn as Lord Robert Arryn’s regent. Lady Anya, you knew as well as I that Royce was pushing to take up arms against the Ill-born King and his Lannister mother. . . before the Freys murdered the Young Wolf.”

 

“And your point?” asked Waynwood.

 

“The point, my lady, is that you lent your support to a man who wanted to fight, back when there was a fight to be had. It should come as no surprise the possibility that he would wish to take up arms now that the fight can, once more, be sparked.”

 

“What would this gain us, ser? What benefit would rousing the Iron Throne against the Vale bring to you or I, or especially Lord Arryn?”

 

Myranda questioned, “Are you asking why lords should rally against a tyrant? Why a boy born of incest by both a reckless mother and an oathbreaker of a father, might be a poor choice as king? Did you learn nothing of his older brother?”

 

“Joffrey was unfit,” she conceded. “And yet, what quarrel did the Vale have with him?”

 

Templeton answered with a question of his own, “What else would you do, my lady? Refuse? It was your knights even more than my men-at-arms who followed Ser Brynden to Riverrun. Seems to me, that raven has flown.”

 

“I sent men to fight the Freys. If we write to King’s Landing, surely the Hand of the King, Lord Tyrell, would grasp the difference between dealing harshly with murderers, as opposed to rebelling against the throne.”

 

Lady Anya crossed her arms, and they seemed to have reached a stalemate.

 

Sansa wondered if her desire to set the North to rights would be stifled before the campaign begun. _I need the help of the Vale._

 

“Lady Waynwood,” she said, “Lord Petyr told me of the state of the Iron Throne when he resigned as Master of Coin. King Robert went most of his reign spending gold he didn’t have. He left debts of. . .” She tried to recall the precise number. “It was more than a million gold dragons, my lady. Petyr used to laugh about what a fool Cersei Lannister was for refusing to honor her husband’s loans. The one owed to the Iron Bank of Braavos most of all.”

 

Anya Waynwood was listening, but didn’t say anything in response.

 

_Was I not clear?_

 

Sansa posed a question, “My lady, what do you believe the Lannisters and Tyrells will do when faced with a bankrupt realm?”

 

Randa Royce supplied an answer, “They’ll thrust the burden onto the lords of the Seven Kingdoms. Once they extinguish the threats against them, what will stop whoever holds the regency from imposing his will? Or else, either Tyrell or Lannister will find a way to profit from this. Usurious loans, diverted taxes, what would you expect from them?”

 

That gave Waynwood pause. Lost in thought, she brought a hand to her face. She stopped short of touching her check, lest she smear her makeup. The Lady of Ironoaks ran her fingers instead over the collar of her gown.

 

Sansa asked, “Lady Waynwood, what would have to happen before you would choose to stand with us? Is it a matter of knowing more of the crimes and deceptions of the men who mean to rule the Seven Kingdoms?”

 

“No, no,” she said. “It is a matter of law, duties, and rights. To defy the throne openly. . . What of our oaths? Robb Stark raised the North when King Joffrey unjustly arrested his father. I believe that was fair-cause. But neither House Tyrell nor House Lannister has done anything of the like against the Vale.”

 

“They placed the Kingslayer’s bastard on the throne,” said Randa, incredulous.

 

Ser Symond narrowed his eyes at Lady Waynwood. “Who decides if those who acted against the Starks and Tullys also acted against the Vale?”

 

“I don’t understand, ser.”

 

“My lady, House Lannister has used the authority of their two, ill-begotten princes to cast the Seven Kingdoms to war and near ruin, all while we stand at winter’s doorstep. Whoever rules the Vale determines whether those actions are cause enough for rebellion. As little Robert is too young to make such a choice on his own, it must needs be his regent.”

 

Lady Anya nodded in agreement with that logic.

 

“So,” Templeton pressed on, “in your view is the Blackfish or Bronze Yohn the Lord Regent?”

 

“Brynden Tully, at present.”

 

 _It took many birds to ensure just the three letters I sent to the Blackfish got to him._ Sansa said, “Ser Symond, I don’t know that we have ravens left trained for Riverrun.”

 

Albar responded, “At least one, my lady. Mayhaps, the rookery has two.”

 

Symond pointed out that they were waiting on the other Lords Declarant to arrive at the Gates of the Moon in any event. Thus, it would mean no loss of time to postpone their decisions. They decided to table their discussions and hoped to hear back from Brynden Tully within several days.

 

Jon offered to send his dragon in place of a raven, but the rest of the table agreed that an attempt to reach Riverrun by bird should be made first.

 

The Knight of Ninestars said, “Better we lose a raven to the mountain-top blizzards than our biggest advantage against the Iron Throne.”

 

* * *

 

After they adjourned, Sansa passed Sweetrobin’s door and couldn’t help but think of him.

 

_If he knew what is going on, would it only serve to frighten him? Or, would it be right for him to know?_

 

Sansa returned to the solar and walked over to Albar, who sat alone at the council table. She asked him, “Would I be foolish to tell Lord Robert about what might happen?”

 

Royce said that he wasn’t certain.

 

She thought aloud, “Lord Petyr wouldn’t tell him. Neither would Lady Lysa. Does that mean we should?”

 

“We _have_ been doing the opposite of what she did, haven’t we?” he suggested with a grin. “Solid food instead of breast milk, discipline in place of indulgence. . .”

 

“I would wish to tell him gently.”

 

Albar agreed, and Sansa went to retrieve the boy.

 

She led a sleepy-eyed Robert Arryn into the room. He wore his bed-clothes, but also a fine, blue cloak that dragged on the ground. It was for the best that he was not fully alert; Robert was at his most obedient in such condition.

 

Albar Royce said, “Lord Robert, we have something serious to tell you. Though you are only a boy, you are still Lord of the Eyrie and Lord Paramount of the Vale.”

 

The boy picked the sleep from his eyes. He stated, “Yes, yes I am. I am the lord.”

 

“And do you know who ranks higher than a lord?”

 

Sweetrobin didn’t respond.

 

“A king or a queen, my lord. We will be writing to your uncle and regent, Brynden Tully. We must needs choose between King Tommen and the queen standing before us, Queen Sansa Stark.”

 

Robert quirked his head. “Alayne?”

 

Sansa said, “Lord Robert, I ask you to join the Vale of Arryn to my cause. The Lannisters are wicked people, and it is the duty of brave men to help in the fight. Do you recall the stories of Ser Artys Arryn?”

 

“The Winged Knight!”

 

“Yes,” she said. “He faced danger and cast out the last of the Mountain Kings. He carved out a safe land for his people.”

 

The boy nodded eagerly.

 

“I ask you to be brave for your people. If the Vale decides to go to battle, you will need to be as brave as Ser Artys.”

 

Worried, Robert looked at the pair of faces staring back at him. He was a fickle boy with only the most rudimentary understanding of the world. Sansa felt like telling him any of this was unfair.

 

 _But, war is never fair,_ she thought. _If not now, when will he ever be ready to hear about this? After twenty thousand soldiers stand ready outside the gates? After they face our enemies in the field?_

 

“Would. . . would I. . . have to fight?”

 

Lord Albar answered him, “My lord, one day, mayhaps. As yet, you would remain here at the Gates of the Moon with me.”

 

“And what about Alayne?” he asked, skeptically.

 

“I would stay with you and Lord Albar.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Yes, my sweet and strong lord.”

 

“Sure, alright,” said Robert. “I can be like the Winged Knight.”

 

 _Is that all?_ Sansa wondered.

 

She didn’t know if she should attempt to explain the hardships that come with war. She found herself at a loss for how to begin any such explanation. _Sweetrobin understands so little of the world, I don’t think words exist that could make him understand._

 

For now, she decided the vague mention of war was as much knowledge as Sweetrobin could bear. Sansa then took him to Maddy so she could tend to him. _And so I won’t have to._

 

* * *

 

Five days later, Sansa Stark convened a second council. To Lady Waynwood, Ser Templeton, Ser Jon, and Randa and Albar Royce, she read Brynden Tully’s message. He wrote that he would be resigning as Lord Regent, passing control of the Vale to Lord Yohn Royce. However, in a final act as ruler of the Vale of Arryn he summoned his grand-nephew’s bannermen to raise their levies and join in rebellion against the Iron Throne and against “Tommen Waters, the false prince.”

 

She read, “He states, _‘The time for half-measures and delay is over. Whether the Vale should choose independence or to join the Kingdom of the North and the Trident, Yohn Royce and his fellows must needs make their own determination. Nevertheless, cowering to Tyrell ambition or Lannister avarice would be the poorest of choices. Should fear grip any of the lords or ladies of the Vale, I urge you to picture Reachmen attempting to climb the Mountain Pass in winter. Long ago, Jon Arryn chose me as his Knight of the Bloody Gate, its battlements carved into the mountain itself. Allow me to remind you all of the armies that died beneath it in the Age of Heroes. What hero among the Reachmen will dare to hazard an assault against the Bloody Gate? What champion in their ranks has even a chance breech it?’_ ”

 

She could see how the words emboldened both Jon and Albar. Symond chuckled knowingly at the Blackfish’s letter, and Anya Waynwood stated, “Since Lord Brynden asks this of me and since Lord Yohn has already taken up arms, I’ll not neglect my duty.”

 

The Knight of Ninestars said nothing so formal about his commitment to Sansa Stark’s cause, but gave her no reason to doubt him.

 

Sansa again raised the issue they’d discussed during their first meeting, appointing advisors to guide her.

 

Lady Waynwood asked, “What type of council did you and Ser Brynden have in mind, my lady?”

 

She hesitated over whether to ask the older woman to address her as a queen. _I’m not Ironoaks’ queen,_ Sansa thought, and thereby decided to keep silent on the formality.

 

“The king’s Small Council has a Hand, a Master of Laws, a Master of Coin, a Master of Ships, the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, and the Master of Whispers. I ask for your help in choosing those and one more position.”

 

“One more?” asked Ser Symond.

 

Sansa was wavering on what to call the post she’d thought of. She began by explaining her thinking, “The people hated King Joffrey because they were starving and he didn’t care. They rioted in King’s Landing over bread. I don’t wish to be like him. Winter is coming, my lords. I don’t want the children of the North or the Riverlands or the Vale to go hungry.”

 

_I don’t want them to hate me._

 

“A wise thought, Your Grace,” said Albar, politely acknowledging her as _a queen_ even if she wasn’t queen over the Vale.

 

Sansa said, “So the new position would be the Master of Provender.”

 

“Provender?” questioned Ser Templeton. “As in horse-feed?”

 

_Oh no! Did I use the wrong word?_

 

Lady Waynwood stated, “Yes, Symond, it means fodder. But, the word can also reference all types of food provisions - in a general sense. I think the title suitable.” She paused for a moment before asking, “Your Grace, who do you intend to name to this new Small Council of yours?”

 

Before disclosing her own thoughts, Queen Sansa returned Lady Anya’s question, “I would ask all of you here for your thoughts on my Small Council. Lady Waynwood?”

 

_Ser Brynden wrote that I should let them speak first, that it can be a safeguard against sounding foolish._

 

The Lady of Ironoaks said, “Firstly, I must know if you intend to afford any seats to your allies in the Vale. Will that be the case, or will you choose only riverlords and Northmen?”

 

“Why would she select any lords from the Vale?” questioned Jon. “If any of them would swear an oath of fealty, then of course. But if the Vale doesn’t wish to be part of the _Kingdom of the North and the Trident,_ why would any Vale lords sit on Her Grace’s council?”

 

Sansa took the opportunity to offer a softer stance than Jon’s. “Ser, if the Vale of Arryn is raising arms to aid our fight, that is all the allegiance I think we need. No?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

Sansa Stark began with the easiest appointment. “Ser Brynden the Blackfish will serve as my Hand.” _Say it just as his other letter said to._ “As Lord Robert Arryn’s former Regent and as a member of the Paramount House of the Riverlands, naming him will honor both the Vale and every lord loyal to House Tully. As mine own grand-uncle, I trust him completely. In choosing my kinsman, no one can say that I unduly favored one lord or region over another.”

 

Ser Symond said, “A seasoned knight who knows well both the Riverlands and the Vale. With your youth, you’ll need someone like him.”

 

The regal Lady Waynwood flattened the collar of her gown and then stated, “Ironoaks might not have the renown for launching fleets that others have, but my castle sits no less on the coast than any other lord’s. My eldest, Ser Morton, is two-and-twenty. Vigorous and capable, he would make for a fine Master of Ships. Your Grace may consider this a formal nomination.”

 

 _Would he be a good Master of Ships?_ Sansa wished that her uncle was with her at the table.

 

Templeton’s face gave away no reaction, but Lord Albar frowned.

 

_Does that mean I shouldn’t agree?_

 

Lady Randa Royce said, “A fine choice, my lady. No doubt Queen Sansa will consider him among the uppermost candidates.”

 

Symond Templeton added, “Your Grace, since your father was of the North and your mother of the Riverlands, what assurances do the lords of the Vale have that we’ll not be forgotten, should we succeed in our fight?”

 

Jon spoke up, “Ser Symond, I can assure you that Queen Sansa will never forget the aid of the Vale. There is a common saying, ‘The North Remembers,’ and I swear to you that those words are more than wind.

 

“When Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor would visit with our lord father at Winterfell, the two of them would often bring up how House Stark protected the Manderlys when their enemies chased them from the Reach. My father and Lord Wyman spoke of the shared history of their Houses as if it all happened under their fathers’ watch, as if they could almost recall it from their own childhoods. However, House Stark defended House Manderly and granted them White Harbor over a thousand years ago.”

 

Jon’s eyes focused on his half-sister. “The memory of a Stark extends beyond his own lifetime. Aye, Ser Symond, Her Grace will recall the friendships to be forged in the coming months.”

 

Ser Jon took a deep breath, and Sansa couldn’t help regarding him closely. _He’s changed so much from when he was just your bastard brother in Winterfell._

 

Albar Royce broke the silence that followed Jon’s statement. “If we are to choose from among the lords of the Vale, would it not be wise, Your Grace, to begin with the Lords Declarant? They’ll be the first to add their forces to Ser Templeton’s host. So, besides Lady Waynwood, the Knight of Ninestars, and of course Lord Yohn Royce; we have Lord Belmore, Young Lord Hunter, and Lord Redfort.”

 

Randa scowled at her younger brother. She looked eager to slap the back of his head. Instead, Myranda said, “Lord Albar, my dear brother, Lord Belmore began the war by beseeching Lady Lysa to join with the Young Wolf, then he backed the Lords Declarant and was the first to blockade the Gates of the Moon. Nonetheless, he soon befriended Littlefinger and marched his levy back to Strongsong. After Littlefinger’s trial, Lord Belmore sent a raven indicating that he would march his men back here, thus changing his mind once again. We can make a fair guess that he will be eager to join Sansa’s cause. Afterward though, how safe shall we feel in his fidelity?”

 

“So,” returned Albar, “Lord Belmore will need prove himself, but-”

 

“But Gilwood Hunter?” Randa asked, with an annoyed glance. “He is a drunkard and an accused kinslayer, by word of his brothers.”

 

“Fine. But those are far from the only lords of the Vale, Randa.”

 

Jon interceded before the siblings’ squabbles devolved any further. “Lord Albar, perhaps Lord Yohn would make for a proper representative of the Lords Declarant on Queen Sansa’s council. He awaits our army at Castle Darry and has already proven himself a capable leader in battle. As the leader of the Lords Declarant and now the Regent of the Vale, wouldn’t he make sense?

 

“Also,” Ser Jon added, “Greatjon Umber is with him. Honoring the Lord of Last Hearth would be a good show of loyalty to the Northern lords we’ll need on our side.”

 

“Well said,” replied Templeton.

 

Lady Anya took issue, “I was made to think that the traditional bannermen to House Stark would assuredly rise up to join with their _new queen._ Is that in jeopardy? If not, then naming a Northman to the Small Council should be weighed of its own merits, not as a plea for help.”

 

“They will,” said Jon. “My lady is right that each lord should be regarded fairly. The Greatjon is loyal, and you’ll not find a braver man to lead any attack.”

 

_You should say something. If you are to be queen, you must needs be able to steer talks like this._

 

Sansa cleared her throat to get their attention. She said, “I agree with you both. Ser Jon, you’ve put forth both Lord Yohn’s and Lord Umber’s names. We shall consider them. Do you wish to add anyone else?”

 

“Lord Blackwood,” he answered. “When Ser Brynden and I snuck away from the Lannister host, Raventree Hall was the last holdout for Robb. He should see his loyalty rewarded. As his House keeps the old gods, Blackwood would do much to bridge any potential rift between the lords of the North and his fellow lords of the Riverlands.”

 

“A fine choice,” Sansa told him. “And in time, he shall. But, Ser Brynden wrote in his first letter that the Lannisters took hostages from many of the riverlords. He intended to wait before asking them to renew their fealty to House Tully.”

 

“Well said,” supplied Lord Albar.

 

 _Albie,_ Sansa recalled and almost snickered.

 

Lady Waynwood said, “This still leaves us with several unfilled seats.”

 

“Your Grace,” began Templeton. “While the honor associated with being named to a queen’s council can do much to bind bannermen to your cause and to reward loyalty, the first duty of any member of your council is to _council_ you. Therefore, if you chose to name lords who are not presently within the Gates, you would do well to name advisors to your Small Council, who will be here and will be able to actually lend you their wisdom.”

 

Symond Templeton leaned back in his chair and pinched his beard between his thumb and forefinger.

 

_He is right. What do I know of minting coins or collecting tariffs? I know little of armies and less of ships. And whispers? Petyr would be a fine Master of Whispers, if he still lived and if I could trust him. But. . . I couldn’t and he isn’t._

 

She asked next about a Master of Whispers.

 

Randa answered, “I don’t know that we have any eunuchs at the Gates of the Moon, Your Grace.”

 

Lady Waynwood huffed her disapproval of the jape and said, “A eunuch is an unnatural creature and a Master of Whispers can be as treacherous as he is helpful. If not for tradition, I’d say that we rid ourselves of the post altogether.”

 

Jon offered, “In my limited experience, one can find the most rumors, both truthful and false, in a trade port. Someone with close ties to Gulltown and other harbors, who’s clever enough to sort the true whispers from the meritless would make for a capable Master of Whispers.”

 

“Lord Grafton might serve,” said Albar Royce. Before Randa or anyone else could object, he explained, “He _is_ the Lord of Gulltown and he’s shown a certain skill with deception. A Master of Whispers does need a measure of deviousness. Further, the honor would help bind him to our cause.”

 

“And,” stated Ser Symond, “we are in possession of his youngest son.”

 

_He’d be a hostage, same as I was._

 

When he saw Sansa’s face, Templeton quickly clarified, “Not that I mean the boy harm. He seems a helpful lad. Just. . . if Lord Gerold is to remain in Gulltown and report to you through ravens and riders, the threat of repercussion to his son might be the exact assurance we need to keep him on our side.”

 

 _A hostage but not in the same way I was,_ she told herself. _I am not Joffrey. Even if Gyles Grafton was a Lannister, I wouldn’t have my guards beat him, or scare him, or anything of the like._

_Lord Petyr would think it clever to hold Lord Grafton’s son._

 

She remembered that it was Littlefinger who asked Lord Gerold to send the boy in the first place. _Most like, he meant to use Gyles as a hostage_.

 

Sansa agreed that the tactic would bind Lord Grafton to her cause. Yet, she promised herself that no matter what threat she made to his father, she would never harm Gyles.

 

She thought about naming Lady Anya as her Master of Coin. _Wars can bankrupt a kingdom. I’ll need what help I can get, and Lady Waynwood will be staying with me after Ser Symond and others ferry off to war._

 

However, Sansa recalled how easily Lord Petyr had brought House Waynwood to the brink of ruin by manipulating the loans against Ironoaks. Instead, she decided upon another offer to the woman. “Lady Waynwood, do you know the Stark words? We must needs make sure we have all we’ll need for the coming snows.”

 

“As you said earlier, my lady.”

 

“Well, yes. From that, I offer you the position of Master of Provender, or Lady of Provender if you would prefer.”

 

“ _Master_ will serve,” said Anya Waynwood. Her mouth remained flat, but Sansa could see by the crinkling around the older woman’s eyes that she was holding back a smile. She said, “I hereby accept the title, Queen Sansa, and pledge by the Seven to do all in my power to see to your kingdom’s and to the Vale’s provisions for winter.”

 

“Whatever happened to Littlefinger’s gold?” Jon blurted out. “He claimed to be one of the richest men in the Seven Kingdoms, but no chests were found in his quarters. Did he have a vault somewhere? If we can find his gold-stores, then Lady Waynwood could use them to purchase what we’ll need.”

 

Sansa looked down to hide her grin. _I guess Jon just took himself out of the running for Master of Coin_. “Ser, Lord Petyr earned his coin by lending it. He used all his cunning to see each loan repaid. So, you’ll find no vaults of gold. The first task of the Master of Coin will be to survey Petyr’s ledgers and gather all that has come due.”

 

“Speaking of Baelish, what is to happen to his castle?” asked Ser Jon. “To Harrenhal?”

 

When no one offered an immediate answer, he continued, “The Master of Coin will sort out Littlefinger’s loans and ledgers, aye. But, what are we to do with his castle? Who holds it in his stead?” Jon looked around for a moment. “Are we to forget about the largest castle in Westeros? What of the vassal townships? Harrenhal has no shortage of lands, I’d wager. Before the war. . . I believe there was a Lady Whent. Did the Lannisters kill her or merely steal her lands?”

 

Anya Waynwood offered what she knew, “Of Lady Whent, I don’t know, ser. But, a knight of the Stormlands, Ser Bonifer Hasty, was chosen by the Lannisters to serve as castellan until Baelish took up his seat.”

 

“Petyr never intended to go there,” Sansa found herself saying. “He needed the title to marry Aunt Lysa.” She added, “Jon, Lord Petyr told me that Lady Whent fled Harrenhal during the war. He said that she died. . . somewhere.”

 

“The Mountain That Rides took the castle from Lady Whent,” Templeton said. “I think it fair to believe that he murdered her. Her death is likely one of the few truths which Littlefinger elected to tell. A butcher who killed many, Clegane was. I can see no reason to leave her alive, except for a knight’s honor.”

 

“And the Mountain had no honor,” Sansa finished.

 

Randa said, “Lady Whent left no heirs. Women of that House are not known for their robustness.”

 

_When she was only a girl, Mother lost her own mother in childbed. She was of that House. I am the grand-daughter of a Whent._

 

Sansa felt little kinship with House Whent. She knew little of Harrenhal, and what history she’d heard was of the castle prior to any Whent taking lordship over it. _It is cursed, they say._

 

She clenched her teeth and willed herself to stop thinking as a scared child does. _You have to be like. . . like Robb. Lord Yohn, Uncle Brynden, Jon - they all look to you. They believe in your strength and your wits, even if you don’t._

 

Sansa felt the voice in the back of her mind begin to deny that those people truly believed in her, _You have the best claim. Why else would lords and ladies grown ever listen to you. You are just a silly girl. You are their queen by right of birth - by the deaths of your brothers - nothing more. You are a queen as Sweetrobin is a lord._

 

Sansa Stark interrupted her thoughts by speaking aloud, “I want it!” Her voice was louder than she intended, and the five others stared at her.

 

_To them, I must seem mad to speak so._

 

“I want the castle, sers and ladies. I have Whent blood through my mother’s mother. If there is no one else in line for it, then I wish to press my claim.”

 

“What would you do with Harrenhal, Your Grace,” Lady Waynwood asked, her voice sounding both polite and somehow condescending.

 

Ser Symond inquired, “Wouldn’t Edmure Tully and his heirs come before you in the line of succession?”

 

“He was taken to Casterly Rock,” said Albar, making the statement sound like a question. “They haven’t freed him yet, correct? For all we know, they might already have executed him.”

 

Responding to the eyes focused on him, Royce said, “We all know they’ve done such things before.”

 

Jon said, “Lord Albar, we sent a rider from Darry.”

 

“Who?” wondered Royce.

 

“A seasoned knight with credibility in the West. He swore to bring our warning to the Red Keep and the Hand of the King. Failing that, all the way to Casterly Rock.”

 

Jon continued, “Lord Yohn would support Queen Sansa capturing Harrenhal, I believe. He wanted to besiege the black fortress as our first foray into this war. Since then, we have taken three castles: one by a cunning assault, one we razed to the ground, and the third yielded rather than face my dragon.” Jon thought for a moment, then amended his statement, “Rather than face _Her Grace’s_ dragon.”

 

Sansa was ready to roll her eyes at him. _Viserion is your dragon, not mine. She is as like to eat my face off as she is to obey my command._

 

Her thoughts must have shown in her expression, because Jon said, “The dragon _is_ yours, Sansa. Through me, she is yours to wield as you wish.”

 

Remembering the history of Harren the Black, she replied, “The songs tell of dragons taking that castle three hundred years ago. I would add a new verse to that tale, ser.”

 

Sansa felt almost giddy at the thrill of giving such an order. She restrained herself, though.

 

Anya Waynwood sighed. The woman voiced her council, “My lady, while that plan would undoubtedly work, we may not need such measures. Bonifer Hasty is but the castellan. He holds no claim over the castle. That old knight is not a greedy man. He is, mayhaps, the very opposite of such vice.” She stopped, waiting for a sign of recognition from the others at the table.

 

When no one responded, Waynwood explained, “He leads a cadre of knights who call themselves, ‘The Holy Hundred.’ I never heard whether he sided with Renly or Stannis, but he eventually bent the knee to Joffrey.”

 

“Would a knight like that break his word?” asked Sansa.

 

“Would he need to? Baelish is dead. Littlefinger sired neither son nor daughter. I beg pardon, Queen Sansa, but you happen to be the closest to an heir of anyone known to us. Regarding the heritage you mentioned through your maternal grandmother, it would seem to me that Edmure Tully ranks highest of anyone left in the Whent bloodline. The Blackfish is without doubt his nephew’s heir with regard to Riverrun. However, does Brynden have any Whent blood? If not, it would be my supposition that as the daughter of the elder of Edmure Tully’s sisters, Queen Sansa is second in line concerning Harrenhal.” She added the caveat, “At least until a child is born to Lord Tully.”

 

Sansa looked at her half brother and asked, “Jon were you about to say something?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“Besides,” said Anya Waynwood, “after the deaths of both Lady Whent and Littlefinger without either of them producing a child, tradition dictates that the castle’s liege lord determines matters of inheritance. The liege lord, that is, unless he’s indisposed, then the choice would fall to the king.”

 

Sansa concluded, “So the fate of the castle would be decided by King Robb’s heir, by me. . .” She bowed her head slightly in a show of respect for the diligent woman. Sansa blushed a subtle shade of pink, thinking about how thorough Lady Waynwood’s spontaneous response was and how impetuous her own demand had been.

 

_I was just trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t afraid._

 

Returning their conversation to more pressing matters, Waynwood posed, “If Your Grace means to supply the Riverlands with food and fodder and does not yet have any gold to offer, how shall I arrange to purchase what we need? I dare say that Ironoaks cannot be expected to open our vaults.”

 

_Your vaults were all but empty, not long ago. If Lord Petyr’s death didn’t release you from the debts he bought up, Ironoaks would still be beggared. Petyr’s scheme to force you into ruin ended as a saving-breath for your House. We would starve if we expected Waynwood coin to feed us._

 

“My lady,” Randa Royce said, “you will have to work closely with the queen’s Master of Coin. I imagine that together with whomever Her Grace chooses, you shall construct a solution.”

 

Jon asked, “Which other lord in the Vale oversees considerable trade? If we were to choose a Master of Coin from the North, I would say Lord Manderly is the most experienced with wealth and trade. From the riverlords, Lord Mooton of Maidenpool governs the most prosperous trade port.”

 

Lady Waynwood frowned and told him, “Lord William Mooton betrothed his daughter to Randyll Tarly’s heir. Mooton is a coward and spent a fortnight locked in one of his own towers, by order of Lord Tarly. Since the day he bent the knee to King Tommen, Lord William has allowed Tarly’s voice to be law in his port.”

 

“Someone else, then,” replied Jon. “Perhaps you mistake my meaning, my lady. Mooton was only an example. I asked about the ports of the Vale.”

 

“What of Lord Waxley?” proposed Sansa. “Wickenden is just across the narrow part of the Bay of Crabs from Maidenpool.” She was proud of her studies of the Vale in the previous weeks. She caught a pleased look from Randa, her teacher for most of those lessons.

 

“To be correct,” interjected Waynwood. “The head of House Waxley is only a knight. A previous Lord of Wickenden sided with Daemon Blackfyre in his rebellion. Afterward, King Daeron Targaryen, _Daeron the Good_ they called him, was merciful enough to only lower the standing of Waxley because he bent the knee before the end of the war. The lords and knights who fought to the last were forced to choose between death and fleeing across the Narrow Sea with Bittersteel and Blackfyre’s younger sons.”

 

She added, “On occasion, you’ll still hear Ser Edmund called, ‘Lord Waxley,’ but it is a courtesy and inaccurate.”

 

“A capable man can rule his lands even if his name is preceded by only a _Ser,_ ” stated Symond Templeton. He then turned his glance to Sansa. “I consider Waxley an adept man in all regards and a fine choice.”

 

Lord Albar Royce nodded and said, “A lord of higher standing might be a more. . . _prudent_ choice once your kingdom is settled, Sansa.” He reddened at how the use of her given name sounded so familiar in front of the others.

 

Sansa didn’t take offense. _You’ve shared this very solar with me every day for five weeks. I’m not sure I am even due a queen’s title yet._ She waved her hand, begging him to proceed.

 

“Your Grace. . .” He tried to reclaim his momentum. “If _Your Grace_ alerts Ser Edmund Waxley that his appointment will only be temporary, then he will have no reason to take insult if you happen to replace him in the months to come. And if you choose to keep him on. . .”

 

“It would be as if doing him a second honor,” Sansa concluded.

 

“So Her Grace has the Blackfish as Hand of the Queen,” Jon rehashed, “and Lady Waynwood as Master of Provender. Ser Waxley will be offered the appointment as Master of Coin, Lord Grafton as Master of Whispers. . . Have I forgotten anything?”

 

Lady Anya answered, “My son, Ser Morton, as Master of Ships.”

 

“Queen Sansa has yet to decide that,” admonished Randa.

 

Waynwood returned, “Can you name someone better, Lady Myranda?”

 

“Lord Sunderland,” she said back, failing to hide a hint of frustration. “He is the liege of the Three Sisters. He is older and more experienced at sea than your son. His House comes from a long line of seafarers.”

 

Sansa heard Jon laugh.

 

Ser Jon said, “ _Seafarers?_ Is that, mayhaps, what pirates are styled in the Vale of Arryn? The pirate-lords of the Sisters pillaged their way through a third of the North. Until. . . it was either Brandon Ice-Eyes or one of the Jon Starks, who cast the Sistermen out.”

 

“That happened how many centuries ago, ser?” asked Albar Royce.

 

Sansa questioned, “Will the Northmen take offense, Jon?”

 

He grinned. “Most like, they won’t. Especially if Sunderland’s appointment, like Waxley’s, is provisional at its start. However, they will no doubt remind this lord what the North does to pirates.”

 

Sansa saw Jon cringe at his own words, and his smile disappeared.

 

Her mind went to Bran and Rickon. _The Greyjoys are pirates. Bran and Rickon had no Ice-Eyes or King Jon to protect them. May the Father curse Theon for what he did._

 

Lord Albar noticed her distress, though Sansa couldn’t say if he would connect the reason for it with Jon’s words. The High Steward of the Vale and guardian of the Gates of the Moon said, “We have decided upon much, my queen. Mayhaps this is enough for today.”

 

“Aye,” said Jon, and Sansa nodded.

 

“But Your Grace,” Lady Waynwood said in a perturbed tone. “We’ve yet to discuss the Master of Laws, and even what you plan to do with the army Ser Symond and I are in the midst of assembling. Are either of those things not worth your consideration? Is either so superfluous that we’d table them for some later day?”

 

 _No, they are too important,_ thought Sansa. She felt like a chastised child.

 

Her half-brother began to speak in her defense, but Sansa said, “No, no. Lady Anya is right, Jon.”

 

He offered, “Lady Waynwood, you say that we have yet to discuss Her Grace’s Master of Laws. What about that as the position for Lord Yohn Royce?”

 

Ser Symond put forth his opinion, “Sounds fitting, ser. Your Grace?”

 

Sansa agreed and, after several seconds of thought, so did Waynwood.

 

Jon recounted the conditions of Bronze Yohn’s company at Darry. To satisfy the Lady of Ironoaks, he abridged the discussion of the armies of the Lannisters and Tyrells that he, Sansa, the Blackfish, and Lord Yohn had before they’d set off to fight the Freys.

 

Waynwood questioned each of his figures to the point of tedium.

 

Sansa thought, _She wouldn’t be so critical of those same guesses if she heard them from the lips of Ser Brynden or Lord Royce._

 

Jon was patient in justifying each point and open about which estimates lacked satisfactory sources. Sansa Stark’s attention waned before her half-brother’s poise did. Nevertheless, she could hear agitation creep into his voice.

 

She cleared her throat to quiet them, but neither Jon nor Lady Anya turned their attention. Albar was the only one who noticed what Sansa was trying to do. He put one hand on Jon’s shoulder and held up the other to Waynwood.

 

“Thank you,” said Sansa. “I believe that we have taken tonight’s talks as far as we can. Let’s break for this night.” _Am I prepared to begin this all again in the morning?_ To grant herself and the others the opportunity to gather their thoughts and their repose, she announced, “We’ll gather again overmorrow. Take the day in between for yourselves.”

 

Her make-shift council stood, bowed to her, then they all left. All, except for Jon, who slumped back down into his chair.

 

She asked him, “Tired?”

 

He leaned his head back and rubbed his eyes. “Wrangling a dragon was less tiresome.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments??


	54. Sansa - Council Adjourned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picks up immediately after Chapter 53: Sansa - Small Council. I made a mistake with my rough drafts and mixed up the order of this chapter and Chapter 54: Jon - Lending a Hand.

 

After everyone else departed the first council meeting, Sansa Stark sat with only Jon. She sighed and asked, “How did I. . . ? Was that. . . ?”

 

“You did well, _my lady sister_ ,” he said, offering her a welcomed smile. Hearing him address her like that, it was obvious to Sansa that her half-brother was trying out a nickname. She was gladdened by the effort he was making to bridge the distance between them and allowed Jon to think himself subtle.

 

He glanced at the door. “Squires,” Jon called out, while rubbing his temples. “Seven hells, Sansa, what were those boys’ names? The ones who follow you about more than they do that brat of a high lord?”

 

She was about to answer when Terrence Lynderly entered. The boy was nearly of age with her and no more than three years younger than Jon. She supposed that since Jon was a knight and Lynderly only a squire there was nothing improper about how casual Jon was acting toward him.

 

“Squire,” Jon began.

 

Sansa corrected him, “Terrance, ser. His name is Terrence.”

 

Jon and the squire both smirked.

 

“As my queen insists,” her half-brother conceded. “Terrence, Her Grace and I are quite hungry. Bring her the best of what the kitchens are cooking for supper.”

 

“And for you?” asked the squire, wearing an insolent grin.

 

Jon chuckled and told him, “Ale and a meal of _average_ taste.”

 

Sansa thanked him, and Lord Lynderly’s young heir left. She stared at her brother’s smirk for a moment, thinking on his recent spells of levity.

 

“You’re different, Jon,” she told him. “You seem. . . well, different.”

 

“Much happened while I was gone, Sansa. As I told you the morning I returned, it was a relief bringing justice to the Freys, though tempered by a dose of sorrow. Much happened, Sansa,” he said with a suddenly heavy heart. “Much and more. . .”

 

Jon let the rest of his thought trail off.

 

She waved her hands and shook her head. “No, that isn’t what I meant.” Sansa corrected herself, “Well, _yes_. You have indeed changed since you left, Jon.”

 

She explained, “But, I was thinking of further back. I mean. . . as far back as before you left for Riverrun. Jon, before you left Winterfell, you were so. . . ”

 

“Sullen?” he suggested with a frown.

 

 _“Serious,”_ she amended. “You tried so hard to be as serious as Father.” _And I held it against you._ “But from the day you left until now. . . you’re just different.”

 

“Sansa please,” he entreated. “Give me more than that.”

 

“Of course,” she said back, trying to think of how to phrase her answer. “Umm. . . I would tell you that you are more. . . well, more like Ser Brynden. More carefree with some things and more fierce in matters regarding family. Does that make sense?”

 

Jon thought for a long moment.

 

Sansa began to wonder if he’d taken insult, then Jon said, “I suppose there’s merit to that. As a squire, I followed the Blackfish about Riverrun and did all that he asked of me. Just. . . I’d say that I still desired to be like Father then.  It’s only in the months since helping Ser Brynden and Lady Jeyne escape the siege that I’ve been. . . I don’t know how to word it. It’s been a sharp change. . .” Jon closed his eyes and ended, “. . . a shape change since I found out about what happened to everyone, Sansa.”

 

 _At least you came back for me, Jon. At least I have you._ The words were clear in her thoughts, but she didn’t know how to speak them aloud.

 

Instead, she tried to sound cheerful. “The shift suits you, Jon,” she told him with a stiff smile on her face. “With your new temperament, it’s as if you are-”

 

Sansa stopped herself when she realized that she was about to say that Jon had become half-Stark and half-Tully.

 

“. . . a mix between both men, Father and Uncle Brynden.”

 

Jon didn’t say anything in reply, lost in his own thoughts.

 

Sansa Stark was grateful to see Terrance Lynderly return at that moment. The squire opened the door and held it for two serving girls. Jon was still silent when they placed a platter on the table. Sansa knew both of the young women and thanked them by name.

 

She didn’t like the silence between Jon and herself, which lingered even after the squire and servants departed. Sansa intended to mention something of their shared past, but thought better of it. _Talking about Winterfell or Robb or anyone else is more like to make him close up._ Thus, they began to eat without conversation.

 

The food they shared must have been waiting to be served for quite a while, because it was no longer hot. Jon didn’t seem to mind, so Sansa didn’t mention it. She sampled the breads and the candied figs.

 

Thinking of the months and years to come, she wondered if winter would bring starvation. Sansa had heard all about the troubles winter could bring, as every Stark had. Nonetheless, the most recent summer had lasted for so long, she couldn’t remember the last winter. _I was too young then. Winter is now here. This is going to be my first true winter, and now I am responsible to guard thousands from starvation._

 

Sansa heard a sudden knock on the door to the solar.

 

“Yes?” she asked.

 

The door cracked open, and Symond Templeton poked his head in. “Your Grace,” he addressed, “and ser.”

 

Sansa beckoned for him to enter and asked what she could do for him.

 

“I wondered about the correspondence you showed me a section of. Did the Blackfish write to you about the men I sent with him? About their health and how they fared?”

 

She shook her head. “He mentioned none by name, Ser Symond. I don’t think he expected anyone besides me to look at the words his ravens carried.”

 

Templeton bowed and turned to leave, but Sansa called out to him, “Ser, would you care to share this platter with us? I fear I am not one for ale, and Jon could use a companion to share the flagon.”

 

He agreed and took the seat next to Ser Jon. The Knight of Ninestars began to foster talk from him. Casual topics garnered one word answers from the younger man, whose mind was elsewhere.

 

Templeton tossed a fig into his mouth, then calmly mentioned their father, “Did Lord Stark tell you much on the Battle of the Bells?”

 

Somewhat hesitantly, Jon replied, “Father didn’t much talk about the rebellion. On that battle. . . Father said Jon Connington chased after King Robert.”

 

Jon paused to gather his thoughts.

 

“Lord Baratheon, as he was then, had been defeated at Ashford by Lord Tyrell and was marching to meet his allies. Connington caught up with Robert at the Stoney Sept. Soon after, Lord Hoster Tully and Father descended on the royal army. The town rang the chapel’s bells to tell the townsfolk to hide and for Robert and his men to come out and join the fight. There, Robert Baratheon turned the tide and chased off Lord Connington.”

 

Templeton smiled. “Your father was truly a modest man, even when he was young. First,” Ser Symond noted, “it was Randyll Tarly that handed Robert Baratheon the defeat at Ashford, but that makes no matter.

 

“You see,” he explained , “as one of his bannermen, Jon Arryn tasked me with guarding the far right flank of the Vale’s army. In the later battle at the Ruby Ford, this would mean that I missed all of the fighting. But at the Stoney Sept,” he said with a grin, “I was one of the few Valemen to take part in that victory.

 

“That far into the Riverlands, Blackwater Rush splits into two rivers. One leads just to the south of the Stoney Sept, which is where Connington came ashore with his host of men from King’s Landing. The other split of the Rush leads far passed the Stoney Sept, all the way to Tumbler’s Falls. Lord Arryn expected that the Iron Throne would send a second force on barges up that branch of the river. Therefore, he took up a position at the fork. Lord Jon spaced his regiments as wide as possible to guard the five-and-ten leagues of shoreline between the fork and his allies.”

 

“His allies going to the Stoney Sept, you mean?” Sansa questioned.

 

“Yes,” he responded. “Positioned on the far right flank of the entire Vale host, I was the furthest from the fork and the closest to the Sept.”

 

Templeton smiled again and admitted, “Young knights are the most rash sort of men, Queen Sansa. Bold as a robin redbreast, I told my levies from Ninestars that only a craven would stand idly by while his allies fought. Thus, I left my post and rushed to join the battle.

 

“If I was wiser then,” he noted, “I would have left my infantry where they were and only led the men on horseback. Regardless, I came upon the battle with my cavalry in time to see _your_ lord grandfather,” he said, tipping his glass to Sansa, “cross swords with Connington. The Knight of Griffin’s Roost had already slain Ser Denys Arryn, whom Lord Jon assigned to Hoster Tully’s honor guard. Tully took a _brutal_ wound, but held his ground. He turned Connington from his search of the town for Robert Baratheon.

 

“Out of admiration for the man who became king, most knights said it was Robert who won the day. Those who were actually there remember Ned Stark as the man who defeated the royal army. That _is_ true. Your lord father threw back Connington’s soldiers,” Symond directed at Jon. He then leaned forward so he could reconnect with Sansa’s eyes. “But Connington was a strong swordsman and more determined than any fighter I saw that day. Watching him with steel in hand, I thought nothing could force him from his pursuit of King Robert. _Nothing,_ until he met Hoster Tully. Your grandfather held Connington off until the Knight of Griffin’s Roost saw that the battle was lost. I’d say Ned Stark defeated the host, but Hoster Tully defeated Jon Connington.”

 

Sansa smiled with pride in her grandfather. She found herself saying, “I wish I’d met him. Ser Symond, what was he like?”

 

It was Jon who answered her. “He was a proud man, even in his last years.”

 

 _Jon met him,_ she realized. _From his time as a squire, Jon knows more of Riverrun and House Tully than any of Mother’s children._

 

“But,” Jon continued, “Ser Robin Ryger and the other old knights spoke of him in his younger years. They said Lord Tully was the most active of men, always riding out, always moving across the Riverlands.”

 

Templeton concurred, “Yes, Ser Jon. During Robert’s Rebellion, he was almost fifty years old, but few men had the legs to ride for as long as him. Lord Arryn and others had to plead with him to slow his pace. I believe _that_ characteristic was no small reason for why Jon Arryn pushed for your father to lead the combined host of Northmen, Riverlanders, and Valemen on its march. Ned Stark set the pace even as we traveled the Riverlands.

 

“Why Stark and not Tully? Who would know that countryside better than Lord Hoster?” Symond Templeton answered his own question, _“No one._ But all of their lords bannermen were like to revolt if forced to keep up with Hoster Tully.”

 

As they resumed their meal, the three of them spoke of Riverrun and Ninestars. Sensing their discomfort, Templeton avoided any talk of Winterfell or Jon and Sansa’s siblings. Jon shared toasts with Ser Symond and matched him drink-for-drink. Otherwise, he would have noticed the careful steering of their conversation. Sansa, drinking only water, grasped the tactic and was thankful for what felt like a courtesy.

 

“Why are you helping Sansa?”

 

She dropped the fork in her hand. In truth, Sansa was well done of her supper and only pushing around what remained of her meal while listening to Symond Templeton’s stories. She looked up from her plate at Jon. He was half turned in his chair, with one arm slung over its back. _Is he drunk?_ she wondered.

 

Templeton’s capacity for ale proved to be her half-brother’s undoing, as the Knight of Ninestars appeared no worse for the drink.

 

Ser Symond looked first at Jon, then made an apologetic shrug to Sansa. “I am not sure that I take your meaning, ser.”

 

“The others,” Jon began to explain. His voice didn’t sound as sluggish as he looked. _Jon sounds clear of mind, at least._

 

“Each of them is lending aid to my sister’s cause for easily understood reasons. Bronze Yohn does so for honor and a desire for justice. Anya Waynwood seeks to improve the stations of her sons. Albar is like a besotted boy of two-and-ten whenever his eyes fall upon Sansa.”

 

She felt her face reddening.

 

“For each of them, I understand their aims.”

 

Ignoring Sansa’s embarrassment, Templeton asked in return, “And you do not understand mine?”

 

“Aye, Ser Symond.”

 

“Is it truly so difficult to grasp that I might see Her Grace’s cause as just?”

 

“Is that all, ser? You make the choice sound so simple. Once? Once, I would’ve heard that answer and thought it the most obvious one. However, rarely have I witnessed southerners act in so noble a fashion. I ask again, _why?”_

 

Symond challenged, “I am trying hard not to take insult at your questions, Ser Jon. Though you’ve not named me a liar, you most assuredly do not believe me a man of my word. What could I possibly say that you might believe?”

 

_“The truth.”_

 

He sighed, “The truth is just as I’ve said.”

 

With an uncommon reserve of patience, Templeton explained, “Ninestars sits southwest of the Vale’s mountains, just north of Wickenden and the Bay of Crabs. It is not far from the Riverlands. I know well what the Lannisters wrought in this war. For that and for mine own honor, I give Her Grace honest council and intend to meet her foes in the field.

 

“If you care to know something else,” he continued, hinting at another reason. “Though I’d keep to my oaths regardless, I am a distant kinsman of Queen Sansa, and you as well.”

 

She spoke up, “Ser Templeton, what do you mean?”

 

“My grandmother was a Stark. She married into the cadet branch of House Royce. She, in fact, lived here at the Gates of the Moon, where she raised my mother and my two aunts. Though I never met my grandmother, my mother would speak of her. In my youth, I heard plenty of Northern tales passed down from her. Tales of snow-spiders as big as dogs and the old Kings o’ Winter. My grandmother was the elder sister of Lord Edwyle Stark, who I suppose was your. . .”

 

“Great-grandfather,” Jon provided.

 

Sansa was gladdened by the smile that appeared on her brother’s face. Satisfied by that explanation, Jon extended his hand to Ser Symond Templeton. The Knight of Ninestars clasped it straight away.

 

Ser Jon offered to refill Templeton’s glass. As Symond held his out, Sansa requested, “Mine as well, please.” Her water glass wasn’t empty, but she was happy to join in their toasts with watered-down ale.

 

With a decidedly lighter air, the three of them drank a second flagon dry, enjoying each other’s company.

 

* * *

 

Sansa Stark awoke as the first rays of dawn cast a stream of light through her frost-covered window. Weeks earlier, she’d been eager to exchange quarters with Sweetrobin, giving him the windowless room that better held in its warmth and taking his windowed chamber. Being able to look out at the courtyard of the Gates of the Moon, she felt less confined. Still, the light that the window admitted saddled her with a drawback in the day’s early hours.

 

Still half asleep, Sansa shrugged on a cloak over her night robe. She fumbled for a scarf and slid her feet into her boots, only to realize she mixed them up.

 

Once ready, Sansa felt for the door handle on the dim side of the room. She pushed it open, but just stood in place.

 

_What’s missing? What did I forget. . ._

 

Sansa turned back to the shadows in the far corner of her room and whispered, “Psst! Ghost, let’s go. I’m up. I’m letting you out. . .”

 

_Ghost?_

 

The confusion stirred her from the practiced, morning routine. _He’s with Jon._ She bristled in annoyance. _Seven hells, Jon. Why did you make me get up so early?_

 

A moment more of wakefulness allowed Sansa to realize that it wasn’t her brother’s fault that she got out of bed needlessly. Somehow, that did not temper her irritation.

 

_Curse it all, I’m already up._

 

She walked through the hallway and down the stairs to the floor below her. Not wanting to also wake him without a reason, Sansa quietly cracked Jon’s door.

 

“Psst,” she whispered. When the direwolf didn’t show himself, Sansa backed away from the door. She counted off, _One, two, three. . . this is the fourth door. Jon is in the fourth room from the stairs, I’m sure of it._ Again, she pushed open the door and whispered for the wolf.

 

Ghost didn’t make a sound, but Sansa saw him poke his nose out of the room.

 

“Let’s go,” she told him. The huge, white direwolf just stared at her. Most mornings, he couldn’t wait for her to let him out into the yard, to make water and to breath the cold, morning air. “Why are you acting to odd? _Let’s go.”_

 

He came along, but still acted out of sorts. Usually, he charged out ahead of her. Ghost was known for being the bane of any careless servants in the first few minutes after any new dawn. On the brief walk to the entrance of the keep, he stayed half of a pace behind her.

 

“Have you forgotten the way out?”

 

She threw open the reinforced door for the white direwolf. When he was finished, Ghost walked back to her. Sansa brushed flakes of snow off his snout, then asked, “My room? Or, Jon’s?”

 

After letting him out in the courtyard, she would usually take him back to her room and allow him to leap onto her bed. The wolf seemed fond of the privilege and would remain quiet enough to avoid disturbing her. Sansa was grateful for the extra hour of sleep the allowance bought her.

 

Ghost was usually eager and assertive. Because of that temperament, she found it easy to ferret out what he wanted, though she was never sure which words the wolf truly understood.

 

Today though, Sansa rolled her eyes and walked up to her floor.

 

She stopped to enter the privy on her hall. When she stepped out, Ghost was no longer in the hallway. Sansa was too tired to bother herself with looking for him. She returned to her room and was surprised to find Ghost already inside. Moreover, he’d pulled the top fur off her bed and dragged it beside the hearth, which was no longer hot from last night’s fire.

 

Sansa walked over, intending to light a new, warming fire. When the annoying beast wouldn’t move, she decided to just sit on his ribs as she stirred the embers and added kindling. Once Sansa had an ample blaze in the fireplace, she curled up in her bed to squeeze out all the remaining sleep she could.

 

_Jon is back for one day. . . and suddenly I am yesteryear’s news. Stupid. . . frustrating. . . doesn’t listen. . . dire. . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the order didn't create any confusion. I think all of you are perceptive enough to see past my mistake.
> 
> Cheers and Happy Monday!


	55. Jon - Lending a Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mixed up the chapter order and posted this one _before_ Chapter 54. So in case you missed it, there's a new chapter online, it's just numbered as _Chapter 54_

Ser Jon awoke to find Ghost no longer sleeping beside his bed.

 

 _Keeping an eye on Sansa,_ he recalled.

 

He dressed for the early winter flurries that had reached the Giant’s Lance. After the previous night’s exhausting meeting of Sansa’s council, Jon decided that he’d best make use of the morning, lest his sister or Ser Templeton set him to any of the multitude of tasks which would need doing at the Gates of the Moon. He gathered together his gauntlets with the bits of armor he’d brought on Viserion’s back and placed them back into his burlap sack.

 

Jon remembered the way to the small smithy beside the now-frozen drinking well, but he could have found it in the dead of night by following the sound of iron on steel.

 

“Allyn,” he said through the window. Jon had to repeat himself twice more, before the smith turned around.

 

The man greeted him with a smile. He clasped Jon’s forearm, then wiped his hands on his trousers. “Ser, ‘cuse the soot, if you will. M’lord’s had me at this here forge from dawn to evenfall near on e’eryday.”

 

“Arms and armor for the soldiers?”

 

“Aye, ser. But, them’s the easy work. It’s joints and fittings for wayns and mule-carts which take the longest. Each one needs be fit for itself. I can hardly believe how they made the journey from Ninestars in their state of wear. But, I’ve the feeling that you’ve not come here for an earful o’ my grumbling.”

 

“No, my friend.” Jon walked around to the door and brought his bundle of armor inside.

 

Allyn asked him, “You’ve not destroyed my plate already? The set that me and the she-dragon crafted was like to survive us all and still be holding its shine when a grandson o’ yours donned it.”

 

Jon assured him that it was only the helm that needed minor mending, because of a blow it withstood at the Twins. Allyn insisted upon having a look at all of it, so Jon laid it out as best he could on the smith’s workbench.

 

Pride lit Allyn’s face as he looked at the armor he’d made for Jon. “I’ve crafted many a more fancy set,” he said, “but ne’er before did I forge it in dragonsfire. Mayhaps this plate is plain, Ser Jon, but I challenge any knight to show me armor more stalwart at this suit’s weight.”

 

The man picked up the helm to examine it for damage. Allyn was a capable armorer. His work was sturdy and unrefined; Jon’s helm reflected that. The characteristic sheen off the steel forged in Viserion’s flame was the helm’s only adornment. The crown of the helmet was round. An inch-long crest ran down its middle, from the top of the brow to a taper down the back. A wedge-shaped faceplate lowered into place against a nasal ridge between Jon’s eyes. Joined, the helmet and the faceplate created two, thin eye slits. The faceplate itself had numerous small holes hammered into it to allow the wearer to better breath through it. The base of the helm’s face secured to a jawline that was a part of the rest of the main helmet.

 

Allyn had gone into detail with Jon about how important it was for the jawline and the base of the helm to meet and overlap the gorget that would protect his throat. The smith’s preferred method, while not unique to Allyn, was particularly useful at the Gates of the Moon, where the primary threat came from the mountain clans. The savage bands that descended on riders in the Vale of Arryn often keyed on the throats of the assailed. Allyn’s overlapped layers both protected the wearer’s neck while also allowing him to partially turn his head.

 

“It’ll be a simple thing to hammer the helmet back into form,” he said. “But, I’ve a few ideas about adding to the armor.”

 

Jon insisted that he did not require any adornments, like the engravings or ornamental additions that highborn knights wore.

 

“No, no,” replied the armorer. “Just mullions to the shoulders - metal plates that look like part of the collar of a high-necked gown. They’ll help deflect future swings at your head.” He tapped the gouge in the helm to emphasize his point. Allyn added, “And I’ll smooth down the joints, now that I can see where they’ve rubbed.” The smith showed Jon the scrapes on the inside of the elbow guard.

 

Jon thanked him and moved to depart. However, Allyn stopped him. “Hold on now, ser! Like I said, I’m a busy man with many a duty.”

 

Jon’s mouth upturned into a sly grin. “And would you have need of my help? Perhaps?”

 

Allyn laughed. “Perhaps I could ask the help of your _friend._ Elsewise, how I am t’ fix your helm? As we saw before, coal doesn’t burn hot enough to soften that dragon-steel or whatever you wish to call it.”

 

“And once I’ve brought my _friend_ here, you’ll think of more ways she might be of use, aye?”

 

 _“Perhaps,_ ser.”

 

Jon agreed to return that afternoon with Viserion, and Allyn said he would be ready to put her flames to good use.

 

* * *

 

“My lady?”

 

Jeyne Westerling opened her door just enough to look out at Jon.

 

“May I enter, Lady Jeyne?”

 

“I don’t think. . . it would not be proper, my lord.”

 

“I’ve only come to talk. We have several things we’d best talk about. I promise to be better company than when last we spoke. But, I’m afraid I must insist.”

 

Still reluctant, Jeyne slowly opened the door for him.

 

The room was dim, but orderly. By the smell of it, however, Jon wondered if Jeyne spent the entirety of each day within. He walked over to the narrow mantle-shelf above her hearth. Jon picked up the only lit candle, intending to light others. The mantle held a score of wax clumps, none of which had wicks.

 

“Have you no other candles? My lady, has someone refused to give you more than the one?”

 

“No, my lord,” she assured him. “I. . . I just don’t want to be a bother. I re-use the melted wax so that my candles each last me a long time.”

 

Jon told her that the servants would clean the mantle if only she asked. He said that the Gates’ candle-makers would of course take the leavings of the old candles to craft new ones. “That is their trade, my lady.”

 

She nodded, but did not offer a response.

 

“Well, no matter,” Jon said. “I’ll see to it that they afford you at least that much comfort during your stay.”

 

She stepped back and her face darkened. “ _‘During my stay?’_ Do you mean to say that you shall be sending me from the Gates of the Moon?”

 

“No, no.”

 

“It is only right, my lord. I have expected that this would eventually come. How long until I must be off?”

 

Jon took hold of her arm and said, “That is not what I meant and not why I am here.” He hadn’t intended to be intimidating, yet still she shied away from him.

 

 _Well played, Jon_.

 

“Jeyne, please come with me. Let’s share some spiced wine, just you and I, while we talk.” He didn’t give her a chance to refuse and slid his arm through the crook of her elbow.

 

The feasting hall was nearly empty, as most of the castle had broken their fast already and the hour was too early for the mid-day meal. Jon chose a place on the periphery of the room. He showed Jeyne to a seat before walking off to the kitchens for the wine.

 

He returned and poured for them both.

 

She hesitated before speaking. “You have my thanks,” Jeyne told him.

 

Jon initiated the conversation he’d meant to have in her room. “My lady,” he said, keeping his voice low enough to avoid an echo. “Jeyne, what do you want moving forward?”

 

She replied that she wasn’t certain about what he meant.

 

Jon explained, “If you could be anywhere right now, where would that be?”

 

“Anywhere. . . If I could be _anywhere?”_

 

“Jeyne,” he said, putting down his glass. “ _Do not fall prey to the ghosts of your past. Nothing good can come of it._ That was something my uncle told me.” Jon reached for her hand, and she didn’t pull away. “I can see that you are hurting, even a blind man could.”

 

She said nothing in response.

 

Jon sighed. “Would Robb want you to feel like this?”

 

“Is this what you wished to speak on, my lord?”

 

“I don’t want you to be miserable, Jeyne,” he said firmly.

 

“Why not? Are you feeling guilty?”

 

 _“Guilty?”_ Jon repeated. “Guilty about what?”

 

“About abandoning your family,” she whispered. Despite how quietly she spoke, Jon could hear the venom in her tone.

 

“I had nothing to do with Robb’s death,” he shot back at her. Jon clenched his teeth, feeling anger rising in his gut. “How can you blame me? How can you think that I should blame myself?”

 

She said nothing and let the distain in her eyes speak for her.

 

Jon abruptly got to his feet. He gulped down the rest of his wine and then said, “I beg pardon, my lady. I have duties I must needs attend.”

 

* * *

 

Jon was determined to spend the rest of the day helping in the smithy. He joined Allyn in using iron-headed mallets and round chisels to stamp metal disks out of sheets of steel. The maids and seamstresses would later sew the disks onto leather jerkins. Once finished, each set would amount to something resembling a shirt of scale armor for the common-born soldiers. Viserion arched her neck and leaned one shoulder through the smithy window. She helped to keep the forge hotter than it normally burned, making the steel softer and the sheets easier to work with.

 

Despite the noise and how the tasks occupied his hands, Jon couldn’t keep himself from thinking of Robb’s widow. Of all the things he’d wanted to discuss with her, Jon’s inability to touch upon any of them troubled him.

 

 _What does she what from me?_ _I didn’t kill Robb. I didn’t abandon him. . ._

_Did I?_

 

“Frothing codpiece!” Jon dropped his mallet and squeezed his thumb.

 

Allyn laughed at him. “What in the bloody hells kind o’ curse was that?”

 

Even Viserion seemed amused.

 

Jon groaned in pain and asked, “Do you have something clean I can use to bind up my thumb?”

 

“Better you packed some snow around it. Else, it’s like to swell up ‘nd then you’ll be asking me to re-shape your gauntlets.”

 

The thumbnail was already turning black, so Jon did as he was told.

 

As the afternoon progressed, he sat and watched Allyn and the dragon carry on their work. Whereas when last Jon was at the Gates of the Moon he relayed instructions to Viserion, now he didn’t have to. Today’s tasks required far less complexity for the dragon than what was required in the crafting of a suit of plate armor. Today, Viserion only needed to heat the forge from time to time, and Allyn was capable of signaling that with a wave of his hand.

 

“Once more!” he cheered, and the dragon obliged him. Jon tried to ignore how the pair seemed to be enjoying themselves. _Why shouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t a dragon enjoy putting her fire to use? And why wouldn’t a smith revel in the chance to have a creature of lore do the more tedious aspects of his work for him?_

A clump of snow, pink from Jon’s bloody thumb, dropped from his hand. “Just a moment, I must needs get more snow for. . .” He realized that Allyn was too engrossed in his work to be paying him any mind.

 

Outside, Jon re-packed his careless injury and found that he couldn’t help but further reflect on Jeyne. _I meant to get the things I have to say off my chest, but all I did was create more to tell her._ He wondered why her simple comment had riled him so.

 

“Do I really need to wonder?” Jon muttered to himself.

 

With his left thumb sufficiently numb, he returned to the smithy and the distraction that hammering steel disks provided him.

 

* * *

 

After keeping his distance from Lady Jeyne throughout the afternoon and supper, Jon approached her door and knocked. She must have assumed that it was him, because through the closed door she said, “Jon, must we really go through this?”

 

“Yes,” he insisted.

 

“I won’t apologize for what I said.”

 

“Then I won’t ask you to.”

 

She admitted him into the dim room. Jon showed her that he’d brought a basket of fresh candles. Jeyne was polite in her thanks, but nothing more than that.

 

“I’m no more eager to resume this conversation than you seem to be. Though, I don’t know why you are so against it. I am asking about what you want to do. Do you want to go back to the Crag? Do you want to stay here? Is there somewhere else?”

 

“I am _‘against’_ those questions, ser, because only a fool would need ask them.”

 

Jon sighed. “Then consider me a fool, my lady. Just give me your answer.”

 

“I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

 

“What do you mean? I do not understand.”

 

Jeyne turned away in frustration. “You really are a blind fool, ser.

 

She took one of the new candles out of the basket. Jeyne Westerling held the bottom of it up to the flame of her old, misshapen candle. She watched the tiny fire begin to melt the unblemished wax.

 

“My mother encouraged me to tend to Robb’s arrow wound, after my father surrendered the castle. From each dawn to the next, I acted as his nurse and caretaker. Later, I learned that Mother told our maester to hide the message about Robb’s little brothers for two of those days. She _knew_ what would happen. My mother _knew_ that after caring for him that I’d. . . _despoil_ myself with him, once he was in the throes of his grief.

 

“Sometime after Robb and I married, she grew fearful of Lord Tywin’s fury. She schemed to murder my husband. She unwittingly got my brother killed too. So do I wish to go home, ser? Would you?”

 

Jon shook his head.

 

“And here, I see how everyone looks at me. For every degree that each Valeman admired the Young Wolf, they hate me in proportion.” She spun in place and looked Jon in the eye. “I didn’t kill him! I had no idea! But no, everyone here and everyone I’ll ever meet shall know me as _Jeyne Wolfsbane_. I hear them whispering it to each other. Such a cleverly insulting name, don’t you think? It even rhymes!”

 

“Jeyne Stark,” he replied, at first quietly. Then, Jon repeated, “Jeyne _Stark.”_

 

“What?”

 

“That’s your real name, my lady. If you never wish to return to your mother, fine. You are no longer Jeyne Westerling of the Crag. You’re Lady Jeyne of House Stark. Momentum is building for Sansa to secure a new Kingdom of the North. She will do it for justice and to spare her people from being under the thumb of a Bolton or a Lannister.”

 

“You think they’ll let you?” she said with a dose of bitterness.

 

“Who do you mean?”

 

“The Iron Throne, House Lannister, Lord Frey, _them._ ”

 

“With Vale swords and a dragon, Her Grace will take back our brother’s lands,” Jon pledged.

 

She still eyed him cynically.

 

“Lord Royce, Viserion, and I destroyed the Twins and captured Darry. Ser Brynden took back Riverrun. Or hadn’t you heard?”

 

Her lips fluttered as she looked for the right words. “No one. . . nobody told me.”

 

“Then I am telling you now,” Jon stated back.

 

She looked at the floor. Jon watched her eyes flicker back and forth, as she worked something out in her mind. After several seconds, Jeyne asked, “What are my options, Ser Jon? What can I choose from?”

 

“If returning to your lord father’s castle is out,” he offered, despite the statement’s obviousness.

 

Jeyne nodded.

 

“Then, you can stay at the Gates of the Moon with your good-sister. Or, if there is another castle in the Vale which you’d prefer, that may be arranged.”

 

She shook her head.

 

“Riverrun is also possible.”

 

“What if you win?” the young woman asked. “What then?”

 

“For you? My first thought would be for you to follow wherever Sansa goes, which she and I hope will be Winterfell, in time.”

 

“Wouldn’t they-”

 

Jon interrupted the question and guessed, _“Wouldn’t they hold Robb’s death against you?”_

 

After she nodded, he said, “The people of the North will know better than to blame you. I cannot imagine anyone I knew as a boy hating Robb’s wife because oathbreakers plotted his murder. No,” Jon said, thinking this through for himself, “the laws of hospitality and guest right pre-date the arrival of the Andals. They were sacred rules to the First Men too. Breaking them in such blatant fashion. . . there are plenty who deserve a share of blame. The maiden whom their _Young Wolf_ fell for?” He added, “Who got Robb Stark’s wolfsblood boiling?”

 

She hid a shy smile.

 

“No, my lady. I don’t see them blaming you.” With a smile of his own, Jon told her, “But were I you, I’d not invite my lady mother to the next autumn’s harvest feast.”

 

“Thank you, ser.”

 

“Jon,” he corrected.

 

“Thank you, _Jon._ ”

 

He’d intended to raise other issues with her, including the thorny topic of Robb’s bones. However, Jon didn’t want to spoil the resolution they’d reached. He instead replied, “You are most welcome, good-sister.”

 

Jon bowed and took his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and reviews would help me pass this wintry Saturday!


	56. Nymeria - Secrets of the Red Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a little while since my last update, so I really hope you like this chapter-and-a-half length Sand Snake POV.

Lady Nymeria Sand sat alone in her bedchamber within the Maiden Vault of the Red Keep. She and her retainers had been grudgingly granted the self-contained structure for their quarters. As a member of the Small Council, Nymeria might have pushed for a personal residence inside Maegor’s Holdfast, the castle-within-the castle. However, she preferred to stay in the same building as all her knights and guardsmen. Spies were easy to turn away, when only the Dornish were allowed access into the building.

 

 _Besides,_ she thought, _the Tyrells could not be more irked than to have the bastard daughter of the Red Viper move into the piously-named apartments their precious Margaery was forced to vacate when she was arrested for fornication._

 

The door to Nymeria’s chambers shot open and then slammed shut just as abruptly. Startled, Lady Nym looked over to see a thin woman in a septa’s cowl leaning her back against the door.

 

“Tyene?”

 

“We haven’t much time,” answered her younger sister, holding out a bundle of clothing. “Here.”

 

Unfolding it, Nymeria questioned, “A septa’s gown?”

 

“Just put it all on, Nym. _Now._ ”

 

“Ty, it’s been nearly two months!  And, the first thing you say to me is that I must needs dress as a septa?”

 

Her younger sister sighed. “Fine! I’ll explain, you dress.”

 

Nymeria unbuttoned her silken gown, letting it fall to the floor. She rarely wore smallclothes, but saw that Tyene had expected as much and included several layers of undergarments for her. She glanced up at Ty and raised her eyebrows.

 

“So,” answered the younger Sand. “With Cersei Lannister’s impending trial by combat, she’s been writing to the High Septon every day, pleading for him to allow her to go pray with her champion. I was at His High Holiness’ side, as I usually am, when he finally agreed to grant the request. I volunteered to escort the Lannister wench. The High Septon said I could, but told me to find Septa Scolera and bring her along.”

 

“And I am to be your _Septa Scolera?”_ supplied Nym, as she unbuckled the leathern sheath for her throwing knives so she could pull the woolen hose up over her thigh.

 

“Bring those,” Tyene told her, pointing at the steel blades. “Apparently, this Ser Robert Strong does not reside in the White Sword Tower with the rest of the Kingsguard. He keeps his former chambers, which are deep in the bowels below Maegor’s.”

 

Tyene helped Nym with the lacings of the gown, given how unfamiliar the garb was to the elder sister. Once she appeared sufficiently pious, Nymeria was ready to follow.

 

“No, no, no,” said Tyene.

 

“What did I do?”

 

“You can’t walk like that. Walk like a _septa_.”

 

Nymeria threw up her hands, and Tyene explained, “You’re moving your hips too much. Bend forward, a bit, at the waist. When you’re trying to be seductive, Nym,” she said in a mocking tone, “you always step like this.” She put one foot forward, then put the other directly in front of it, almost crossing her ankles. “Widen your steps. When we’re in the hallway, watch the floor and keep a brick and a half between your feet.”

 

They left Nymeria’s quarters together. Her guards were all Dornishmen: treacherous to foes, but loyal to her. She didn’t think her clothing would deceive any of them, but they reacted as if none the wiser.

 

Tyene led a path through the courtiers milling about in the bailey. _If any of those eyes should happen to fall upon us, they’ll see no more than a pair of septas who likely just stepped out of the adjacent building, the royal sept._ The sisters circled wide around the armory, to the Serpentine Steps. Nymeria followed Tyene down the icy, stone stairway. It led them to the lower bailey, which was far less crowded as few who didn’t have business inside Maegor’s Holdfast would venture into the smaller courtyard.

 

The dry moat encircling the central holdfast within the Red Keep was filled with snow. Servants had shoveled the snowfall into it, rather than properly removing it from the yard. The stakes inside the moat would do little to prevent anyone seeking to assault the stronghold, since the snow covered them completely.

 

 _Today marks the third straight day of snow._ Nymeria sighed as she felt a shiver run down her spine. _And winter has not but just started._

 

Ser Boros Blount was the Kingsguard knight on watch above the drawbridge entrance.

 

Tyene waved up at him. She said sweetly, “Bless you, ser. We two have business with Queen-mother Cersei Lannister. Might we enter?”

 

Blount sighed and signaled for the guards to lower the bridge.

 

“Stay close,” whispered Tyene, “and do not raise your cowl to look anyone in the eye.”

 

Through corridors and up steps, they walked. Since the Small Council’s chamber and the Throne Room were on the other side of the Red Keep, Nymeria had never been inside the guarded holdfast, let alone up to the royal apartments within. No matter the turns they took, Tyene seemed to know precisely where they were headed.

 

“How do you know these halls so well?”

 

Ty only told her to hush.

 

* * *

 

A young novice of the Faith sat on a foot-stool beside a carved, oak door. On the door was an intricate display of a rearing stag and a roaring lion. Nymeria didn’t know if the tradesman who made it had intended for the beasts to appear readying to battle each other, but to her that aspect was unmistakable.

 

“Septa Alerie,” said the novice, a girl of three-and-ten.

 

“Yes, sweetling,” returned Tyene. “Is Her Grace within?”

 

“The sinful woman has been trying to trick me for days. She wants to be allowed to go wherever she pleases and do _only the gods know what,_ septa.” The girl seemed to notice Nymeria for the first time. “Who’s this with you?”

 

Nym waited, not sure if she was supposed to answer. Tyene spoke for her, “My girl, judgment is the business of the Father, not us mortal creatures. Though she has sinned, His Holiness has chosen to let the gods decide Cersei Lannister’s fate. I am to take her to pray with Ser Robert Strong. Consider this a lesson from a woman who has passed her trials and donned her cowl: do not question the High Septon in his choices regarding the fallen queen or in whom he opted to send as the woman’s escorts. Understood, my sweet?”

 

“Yes, Septa Alerie,” the girl replied sheepishly.

 

“No need to fret,” said Tyene, with half a grin. “If you promise to commit this lesson to memory, I see no need to inform His Holiness of my having taught it to you. Yes?”

 

“Yes,” she answered. Nymeria could hear the relief in the girl’s voice. “My thanks, septa.”

 

Tyene gave the novice a wink in return.

 

“Should I bring forth. . . Queen Cersei?”

 

Tyene Sand nodded, and the septa-in-training entered the queen’s chamber.

 

Nym leaned closer to her sister and whispered, “You’re a fully anointed septa, now? And you’re Septa _Alerie?_ ”

 

“Of course,” Tyene returned. “I was trained and awarded my cowl in Oldtown. I was no doubt named for Lady Alerie Hightower, wife to Mace Tyrell. Seems a fitting choice, no?”

 

The door began to open, and Nymeria ducked her head to hide a smile.

 

The Lannister harlot frowned when she saw Tyene, but schooled her face a moment later.

 

“Septa,” said Cersei, by way of greeting.

 

“Queen-mother,” Tyene responded. “His Holiness, the High Septon, agreed to allow you to pray with your champion, Ser Robert Strong, since the day of your trial-by-combat is so near. Will you follow me to the White Sword Tower?”

 

“Septa Alerie,” said Cersei. “Why should you lead me there? Ser Robert keeps his quarters below this holdfast.”

 

“Not with his sworn brothers?” asked Tyene, feigning curiosity.

 

“No, the good knight chose to stay closer to His Grace. I believe it a wise decision with the current state of the Kingsguard. Lord Commander Jaime has not yet returned from his duties in the Riverlands, Ser Balon Swann is hunting a snake of a Dornish knight in High Hermitage, and the gallant Knight of Roses isn’t like to return to His Grace unless he does so on a funeral wayn.”

 

“Do not forget, Your Grace,” Tyene told her, “Ser Osmund Kettleblack remains a prisoner in the cells beneath the Great Sept for his confessed sins.”

 

Lannister ground her teeth.

 

Tyene finished, “His Grace, the young king, is wise beyond his years to keep one of his knights close, even in slumber. Though, I fear I do not know the location of his quarters. Do you?”

 

Cersei kept her teeth clenched as she nodded. Tyene gestured for her to lead the way, and the three of them proceeded down the red-stone corridor to a narrow set of stairs.

 

The way was dark, despite the hour of day. Nym had to tread carefully, as her septa’s hood reduced her field of vision. At each landing, they passed a pair of men-at-arms. They wore Lannister colors, with two lions quartered on their crimson shields. None reacted warmly to seeing Cersei about.

 

Nymeria Sand lost track of how many flights down they were when finally they reached the base of the stair. The corridor was as dark as a moonless night. She couldn’t imagine a knight residing this deep below the castle Maegor Targaryen constructed.

 

Tyene, though, was prepared. She produced a flint from her sleeve, took a torch from the wall, and sparked it. The cobwebs covering the torch produced a wisp of brown smoke as it caught light.

 

Leading the way, Tyene Sand said, “Please direct me, Your Grace, when we approach a turn or Ser Robert’s door.”

 

“You could hand me the torch,” suggested Cersei Lannister.

 

“Do not trouble yourself, Your Grace. I will gladly carry it for you.”

 

Nymeria didn’t know if her sister expected Lannister to attempt an escape or to use the flame as a weapon, but she was fine with the torch remaining in Tyene’s hands.

 

After turns around several more hallways, they approached a solitary door. Lady Nym heard her sister ask if this was the correct place, which Cersei affirmed. Tyene raised her hand to knock, but just then the door cracked open.

 

The room as barely brighter than the hallway. The only light came from a brazier beside the unlit hearth, giving off a reddish glow.

 

A grand-fatherly voiced said, “Your Grace, we’ve been expecting you.”

 

The calm tone relaxed Nymeria. She realized that on instinct she’d lain her thumb on one of her throwing knives, feeling the steel beneath the cloth of her long, loose gown.

 

The man said, “Please, give me a moment and I shall light Ser Robert’s beeswax candles, so he might welcome you properly.”

 

As the candles lit the cramped cell, Nymeria was shocked to find that the huge Ser Robert Strong had been standing in the shadows within his own living quarters. The giant of a man wore enameled, white armor from head to heel.

 

“May I ask for your name, brother?” Tyene questioned the elderly attendant.

 

Cersei introduced him. “This is Ser Robert’s serving man, Quellyn. You may leave, now, septas.”

 

Tyene stepped into the now brighter quarters and frowned. She said, “I must needs inspect the room. Your Grace won’t begrudge His Holiness for being thorough.”

 

Nym waited in the doorway, and her sister circled around the chambers, poking at several objects.

 

“Is anything amiss?” Quellyn asked.

 

“It seems not.”

 

The Lannister woman grumbled, “Now you may leave.”

 

“Very well,” returned Tyene. “Though I gave the High Septon my word that I would not allow you the opportunity to. . . fall into the habits of your past. . .”

 

Nymeria had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at how brazen and sweet-sounding Tyene was while she threw the insult at the Lannister woman.

 

The old man gingerly touched the septa on the arm. “If you would be so good, my dear, Ser Robert and Her Grace might feel more comfortable in their private prayers if you both would step just a little ways down the hall.” With a smile, he said, “They might keep the door ajar, so you’ll be able to hear if anything is amiss, but still grant them a measure of courtesy. Let me find you both some candles.” He reached up and pinched Tyene’s chin between his knuckles. “A face as sweet as this will no doubt prefer a scented one.”

 

He ducked back into the room, then produced a candle and saucer for each of the false septas. Quellyn led them considerably far down the corridor, before he handed them the candles. “To wit, this should still be close enough for you, sister, to hear anything _sinful,_ ” he said with a chuckle. “Though if you were hoping to catch such behavior, you’ll be disappointed by the queen and Ser Robert.”

 

The old man crept down the walkway and left the door cracked, as he’d said.

 

Alone, Nym whispered to her sister, “What now?”

 

“Now, you and I do what Septa Scolera wouldn’t have thought fitting of two women of the Faith. That old battle-axe wouldn’t have granted Cersei _any_ privacy. But how could I hope to eavesdrop on that treacherous Lannister’s secrets, if I didn’t afford her the opportunity to speak them? Now, sister,” Ty said with a godly bow, “we slither like the snakes we are.”

 

On their soft slippers, Tyene and Nymeria crept silently down the long corridor and towards the door.

 

For a moment, they heard nothing.

 

Then, Nymeria heard an older man’s voice, but it was harsher than that of the knight’s servant. “See, Your Grace? Only silence. If they meant to listen in, they could just as easily have refused to leave the room.

 

“I am everyone’s favorite nuncle,” the man said, and his voice was once more gentle.

 

“Qyburn, don’t you dare mock me,” Cersei Lannister snapped. “With a puffed up High Septon foolishly starting quarrels with his betters, I cannot be associated with you right now. No, not with your reputation. So, get on with it. What news have you?”

 

“Much and more,” said the man. “Firstly, I’ve learned why Mace Tyrell and his fellows so eagerly supported your request to delay the trial. It was not out of respect for your uncle’s passing.”

 

Nymeria heard only silence, as Cersei waited for the old man, _Quellyn_ or _Qyburn,_ to continue. _Where have I heard that name before?_ Nym wondered.

 

“They will be supplying a champion for the Faith.”

 

“You said that _he_ cannot be beaten,” Lannister said, her voice quiet but her tone fiery.

 

“Indeed, my queen. It seems Lord Tyrell came to the same conclusion. Mayhaps he finally realized that his Margaery needs the truth of Tommen’s parentage confirmed, opposed to the lies of Lord Stannis, just as much as we do. It makes no matter, since he couldn’t hope to find a man to defeat your champion. Instead, Lord Tyrell found one whom he _hopes_ does not defeat Ser Robert.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Alekyne Florent.”

 

“Lord Florent’s heir? Why? I stripped his father of all lands and titles after the Blackwater. I already bestowed the Florent castle on Tyrell’s second son.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the deceptive, old man. “With his father dead, Alekyne would have inherited the lordship of his House. Some time ago, Garlan Tyrell was marching against Brightwater Keep, and the attainted Lord Alekyne fled to Oldtown. His sister is the Lady of Hightower, Lord Leyton’s young fourth wife. As it happens, Florent was captured by the City Watch of Oldtown before he reached his good-brother’s tower. The captain of their watch is a Tyrell, Mace’s uncle in fact. He sent word to his lord nephew.”

 

Cersei said back, “So Mace Tyrell means for my knight to slay Florent.”

 

“Yes, my queen. Alekyne has no children and only sisters. With him dead, Garlan Tyrell’s seat will be much more secure. A Florent uncle or two may still protest in the coming years, but such a claim would be weak and unlikely to rile support from any of the House’s petty vassals along the Honeywine.”

 

Cersei sighed audibly.

 

“After Strong defeats Florent, the High Septon will have no choice but to declare you innocent of fornication with Ser Jaime. But, then. . .”

 

“What, Qyburn?”

 

“Osney Kettleblack.” After a moment, the man continued, “He maintains that he murdered the previous High Septon on your orders.”

 

“The Imp’s penny-pining septon.”

 

“You see, my queen, Ser Osney confessed his crime and will die for it. If he retracts his _false claims_ about your part in the murder, it’s the noose for him. If he holds to them, he’ll face your champion to determine not his own guilt, but yours.”

 

“And the other Kettleblack brothers?”

 

The man let out a laugh that sent a chill down Nym’s spine.

 

“Oh, they’re both asking for a trial by combat. But once they see Ser Robert Strong slay Lord Alekyne and Ser Osney, they’ll be all too eager to confess to their fornications, thereby earning the privilege of exchanging their black kettles for black cloaks.”

 

“How many bloody trials does the _High Sparrow_ intend to put me through!”

 

“Hush, my queen, please,” the old man whispered. He then explained, “Tradition dictates that _the accused_ faces _the accuser_ in battle. Or, of course, their champion.”

 

He continued, “Since Stannis Baratheon was the first to claim that you and Ser Jaime committed incest and because Lord Stannis obviously will not arrive to defend the accusation himself, it falls to the Faith to supply a champion.”

 

“Alekyne Florent.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace. Osney Kettleblack will be the second to stand against Ser Robert. Lastly, Lord Lancel will-”

 

 _“Lancel?_ Do you mean Lancel _Lannister?”_

 

“Yes, my queen. Your cousin will battle your champion over his claim that you committed treason against King Robert.”

 

“The wine,” she scoffed. “Lancel means to die over a skin of strongwine?”

 

“So it seems.”

 

Nymeria felt her legs begin to cramp from crouching near the door. Having left the candles at the end of the hallway, she couldn’t see even the wall next to her. She ran her hand over the brick stone until she felt an edge. Digging her fingers in, she slowly raised herself up to stand. Tyene pulled at her sleeve, cautioning Nym to be silent, though she didn’t need any such reminder.

 

“Any news of the Imp?”

 

“None. If he was the one who murdered Ser Kevan and Pycelle, my sources would have-”

 

“Stop,” ordered Cersei. “I _know_ it was him. If you wish to stay in my good graces when I’m free, you’ll save me the lack-witted speculation.”

 

“Forgive me, my queen. Spies relay rumors, many of which are false. You are clever to see through them. I shall continue to offer rewards to any of my spies who return viable testament of the Imp’s whereabouts. But, I would be remiss if I did not add,” said the old man, sounding again fatherly. “You must consider the chance that your uncle was murdered by an assassin in the employ of House Tyrell. One who was paid to make the scene _appear_ the work of your dwarfish brother.”

 

“Yes,” Cersei said pensively. “Very good, Qyburn.”

 

“Thus, Your Grace, I must needs receive more coin and more subjects to aid in my examinations. Both are necessary for my work. With so many threats to you and your sweet son, how can we chance failure?”

 

“We can’t,” she insisted. “Fine, you’ll have all you need. The coin will be easy. I am allowed one visitor in my quarters each day, but only family. My Lord Treasurer, Harys Swyft, was my uncle’s good-father, and he is the grandfather of my cousin. That should be close enough to family for the _High Sparrow._ After tomorrow’s Small Council meeting, send Swyft to visit with me while I break my fast.”

 

“It will be done. Though. . .”

 

“Speak.”

 

“Mace Tyrell removed me as the Master of Whispers, in place of his uncle, Garth the Gross.”

 

Cersei groaned in frustration.

 

“Quiet,” he told her. _“Please, Your Grace._ It would not do for the septas to hear such sounds.”

 

The soiled queen laughed. “Do you think those future shrews will mistake the sound of my annoyance for the sound of ecstasy?”

 

Nymeria heard steps approach the door. She clutched the wall and froze in place. A woman’s shadow blocked the line of light coming from the door’s slim opening.

 

_Should we flee back to the candles?_

 

She glanced down at her sister. Nymeria could see only the subtle outline of her sister’s face. Tyene turned away from the door and cupped her hands around her mouth. She made a choppy hissing sound back toward the candles.

 

After several, long seconds, Cersei said, “I hear them gossiping down the hall about whatever girls who take the Seven Pointed Star as a lover happen to gossip about. Go on, Qyburn.”

 

“While I’ve heard nothing regarding the Imp, I received word of Ser Jaime.”

 

“Is he on his way?”

 

“My sources in his host. . . they say that your brother disappeared into the forest, that he commanded his knights to remain where they were, to neither follow after him, nor leave their campsite.”

 

“What does _that_ mean? Ser Kevan said something like that on the night he was murdered. Where in the seven hells did Jaime go?”

 

Lady Nym heard the old man smacking his lips. He then said, “From out of a riverlands’ wood, came a hideous woman in leather and plate. She claimed to have found someone. . . someone being held hostage by the Hound.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Sansa Stark.”

 

“Good,” huffed Cersei. “Jaime shall deal death to that traitorous dog and drag the truth out of the little twit’s mouth. He’ll learn what role she played for the Imp, and if she knows where he’s hiding. How long ago?” she asked. “How long has it been since Jaime went after the Hound?”

 

“A moon’s turn and half-a-cycle into the new moon, Your Grace.”

 

Frustrated, the woman asked, “That long?”

 

After another moment, she said, “I take it as a good sign. Jaime must’ve learned something from the little trollop or the cowardly dog. Surely, he’s on the Imp’s trail.”

 

“As you say, my queen.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

“One more tiding, regarding _your daughter,”_ he said, as if to remind Cersei of the girl’s existence.

 

Nymeria Sand had grown fond of Princess Myrcella on the journey to King’s Landing. _She’s a pleasant little thing,_ thought Nym. Myrcella hadn’t seemed excited about returning home. _Mayhaps the girl missed her prince, young Trystane._

 

“Balon Swann still hunts the man who attacked her.”

 

“She could have grown into such a beauty,” mused Cersei. “What I wish to know is how in the seven hells did the gouty prince sniff out Swann’s mission.”

 

“My sources have yet to find Doran Martell’s spy. They looked into everyone in your service, my queen. My guess is that the spy fled from the capitol. Who else had knowledge of your. . . intent?”

 

“I did as my father would have: the pieces who needed to know of my plan were told, and anyone else. . .”

 

She was quiet for a second, then said, “Curse those _vipers_ , nothing but snakes and sluts. The Targaryens should have given them death, rather than brides.”

 

 _Doran was right. She meant to kill Trystane!_ Nymeria wished that she could have charged into the room and buried her knife in a Lannister throat.

 

“Be sure that your spies continue their exploits.”

 

“Yes, my queen.”

 

“Anything else, Qyburn?”

 

Nymeria felt a tug on her sleeve and turned her head. Tyene was treading backwards to the candles, so she followed after her sister.

 

The light cast by the gap in the doorway widened suddenly.

 

Tyene immediately straightened her posture. “Just so, septa. Yes, yes,” she said, giggling. Ty looked over, as Qyburn stepped into the hallway. “What timing! We were about to see if you both had finished your prayers with Ser Robert. Our talking didn’t disturb you, brother?”

 

“No, child. Your timing is impeccable. Her Grace is ready to return to her chambers, and the valiant Ser Robert Strong must needs ready himself for this afternoon’s duties.”

 

The towering knight trailed after the kindly, old trickster. Qyburn held up a torch. “If you would be so good, sisters, might I borrow your fire? If it please you, keep those two candles to guide your ascent, and as a gift from Ser Robert.”

 

Tyene nodded on behalf of them both and raised her candle up to the old man’s torch.

 

Qyburn and Ser Robert walked away first. Once the torchlight turned the corner, Tyene Sand asked Cersei, “Ready, Your Grace?”

 

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

After Cersei Lannister closed the warring stag and lion behind her, Tyene linked her arm into Nym’s, and they started back the way they just came from.

 

“Alerie, that’s the wrong way!”

 

Tyene turned to the watchful novice. “Sweetling, have you forgotten today’s lesson so quickly?”

 

“No, no, septa! Pardons, Septa Alerie.”

 

“Naught to worry yourself over, my sweet.”

 

* * *

 

After they descended the first set of steps, Nymeria echoed the novice’s question, “Why are we heading the wrong way, Ty?”

 

“Terrible suspicion surrounds Cersei’s mysterious, white knight. We must needs learn more.”

 

Nym came along as they continued down the stairs.

 

Tyene whispered, “The High Septon is expecting my report on Cersei. But with the old man and the mammoth knight gone, we’ll be able to get in there. Did you notice that neither troubled himself to lock the door? Mayhaps that means there’s nothing worth finding, though I hope they simply overlooked doing so, as I doubt anyone else has dared to set foot within half a hundred paces of that room.”

 

“The recesses beneath Maegor’s is no fit place for courtly ladies.”

 

“But _Sand Snakes?”_ Ty winked back at her, and they continued down the stairs.

 

Nym let her sister lead through the various corridors. _I was just here, but for all the sunken jewels of Ny Sar, I couldn’t find my way back._ She did her best to concentrate on each turn during this second trip into shadow.

 

They found the door, which was neither latched nor locked, just as Tyene said.

 

Using their scented candles, the Sand sisters looked for any documents or letters that might lend more insight into where Robert Strong came from.

 

“Check those,” instructed Tyene, pointing her candle-saucer at a stack of papers on a writing table.

 

Nym set her candle down. She flipped through sheets of parchment, holding each close to the candlelight. “Ty,” she whispered. “None of them are Strong’s. They’re all addressed to that _Qyburn.”_

 

Her sister rummaged through a bucket. “It’s full of butcher’s tools. Cleaver, bone-saw, lancet, even a scalpel.”

 

Before either of them could think of what significance those blades might be, they froze at a sound in the corridor.

 

 _Humming,_ Nymeria realized. Though it sounded cheerful, she dreaded what it meant.

 

“We’ve got to get out!” Lady Nym whispered.

 

“No,” stressed Tyene, “the sound is still a long ways off. I think I know who Robert Strong really is. We _have_ to get Uncle Doran proof. _”_

 

“Something about this feels wrong.”

 

“Something _does_ feel wrong, and that’s why _you_ have to keep searching.”

 

“Ty,” she urged. “What if he-”

 

Standing next to the entrance and holding the door cracked open, her sister whispered in return, “I can hear that it’s only the old man’s footfalls echoing around the corner. I’ll lead him away, you search the room. Without his knightly beast, what could he do to me?”

 

Tyene Sand didn’t allow for any further discussion. She stepped outside and closed the door tight.

 

Though Nymeria and Obara were the eldest of the four grown Sand Snakes and the most accomplished fighters among the sisters, Tyene and Sarella had a long history of taking it upon themselves to lead their schemes.

 

_Years ago, Tyene would be leading me in a forage into the cupboards for persimmon tarts, now we’re sneaking beneath the Red Keep._

 

Nym heard the old man’s sweetly voice outside, “. . . His Holiness is right to wonder what Her Grace, Ser Robert, and I prayed on, dear girl. Let me invite you in for a cup of wine.”

 

Tyene’s septa-voice echoed in the corridor. “If you care for a glass, good-man Quellyn, let us share it in the glow of the royal sept after leaving a drop for each of the Seven.”

 

“A kind offer, sweetling, but I will be seeing to my duty in ser’s room regardless. If you’d indulge me, I think I have just the vintage of red for a delicate tummy, dear.”

 

Nymeria looked about the shadows of the dark room. _Where can I hide? Under the bed?_

 

Over Tyene’s muffled chatter in the corridor, Nym heard a faint chirp or squeak.

 

 _A mouse?_ She turned around, still looking for somewhere to conceal herself, no matter how many mice infested the room.

 

Her heart jumped within her chest as she saw a small, shirtless girl in the shadows.

 

_She looks terrified._

 

“I won’t hurt you,” Nym whispered.

 

The child expelled a breath through pursed lips, making a whistle that was no louder than a whisper. Nymeria watched her crouch down and crawl into a square hole in the unused fireplace. Urgently, the child waved for her to follow.

 

 _Who in the bloody hells is this girl,_ she thought as she sank to the floor and followed into the pitch-dark hole.

 

The narrow crawlspace forced her to lay flat as she slithered inside. The girl whistled again and pointed to an iron grate. Nym had to angle her body to push the grate into the square hole in the back of the fireplace.

 

No sooner had she done that, than she heard Tyene and Qyburn enter.

 

The half-naked child was better suited to navigate through the hidden tunnel than Nymeria was, especially in her septa-gowns. After creeping for several feet, her hand bumped into a dead end.

 

_If only I had a torch._

 

Feeling for another way, she found that slats were carved into the stone, making for a ladder upwards. Nym had to arch her back to fit past the confined ceiling of the black tunnel and begin climbing. She counted eight rungs before the tunnel leveled-off again.

 

Nymeria continued on, until the girl’s whistle ahead warned of a drop-off in the crawlspace. She turned around to climb down feet-first.

 

Once she crept off that second ladder in the stone, Lady Nym felt a tap on her hip. In complete darkness, she couldn’t see even the wall in front of her.

 

“What is this place?” she whispered. “Where are you taking me? Why are you helping me?”

 

The little girl’s only response was another whistle.

 

Sand heard the girl running her hand along the stone wall, then felt the child tug at the hem of her dress. The girl took Nymeria’s hand and pressed it against something curved and smooth. _A hand-hold carved into the wall?_ They both pushed. A block of stone gave way, sliding along the ground.

 

She leaned her head out for a look. Passed the opening, Nymeria saw a flat line of light on the floor. _The door,_ Nym realized. _The tunnel led up over the hallway, then back down to the wall opposite the door to Robert Strong’s room._

 

“Thank you,” Lady Sand whispered to the girl.

 

However, she’d disappeared further down the crawlspace within the wall.

 

Content to have escaped unnoticed and without ruining her sister’s deception, Nymeria crept into the hallway. She made her way slowly through the pitch black corridors, running a hand along the stone wall.

 

After what felt like an eternity, she saw flickering torchlight ahead. Nymeria Sand walked to it, finding the stairway up and out of the depths below Maegor the Cruel’s Holdfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and questions are like writing fuel, so please help me by topping off the tank!


	57. Sansa - Plans for the Riverlands and the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit that this one is a slow-paced chapter. I know that's an aspect of my writing that some readers aren’t fond of. But, please give it a chance. This one covers lots of material and is meant to give more insight into how Sansa thinks and reacts. I hope that it helps to set up her arc and growth as a character, even though I haven’t thought of the rest of that trajectory (with first things being first, and whatnot). 
> 
> So, for your reading pleasure, here’s Chapter 57 of _A Better Fate_.

To commence the third evening of meetings, Sansa Stark cleared her throat and waited for the attention of Ser Jon, Lady Waynwood, Ser Templeton, Lord Albar, and Lady Randa.

 

_They actually quieted for me this time._

 

“I thank each one of you for your council these last days. On this eve, I would hear what you think we should do, _what I should do,_ about the Riverlands and the North.”

 

Jon looked at her, and she nodded back. “Your Grace, I think with Riverrun secure, we should turn our focus upon the North. Perhaps it would be wise to leave a contingent to help garrison the castles closest to the Westerlands and to King’s Landing, but beyond that we should march northward. That’s how I see it.”

 

Albar Royce agreed.

 

The Knight of Ninestars hesitated in his consent. He said, “I can see the importance of taking back the North and Winterfell, Your Grace. But, it wouldn’t do to leave _any_ region unguarded. You know better than anyone the tragedy that can befall a castle not ready to throw back an assault.”

 

_Bran and Rickon._

 

“Yes, Ser Symond. I know it well.”

 

After a moment, Sansa asked, “What would you advise, ser, in the matter of protecting the Riverlands and the Vale?”

 

“The Mountains do much to safeguard the Vale. We need to garrison our lands along the coast of the Narrow Sea and Bay of Crabs, but elsewhere the Vale of Arryn should be safe. The Riverlands? They’re another song entirely. As the Mudds, Fishers, Justmans, then the Storm Kings, and House Hoare of the Iron Islands all learned: the Riverlands are damn near indefensible.”

 

“If I may, Your Grace,” offered Lady Anya Waynwood with all courtesy. “I know that Lord Edmure is your uncle and the Blackfish’s nephew. . . but, he made a jape of his defense of the Trident.”

 

Coldly, Jon answered, “He was out-numbered, and no one would have expected Tywin Lannister to be so bold and reckless.”

 

“I’m certain that Lady Waynwood means no offense, ser,” said Templeton.

 

“Mayhaps the situation was against him,” conceded Waynwood. “No matter, when Tully sent too small an army to guard the Golden Tooth, the riverlords were overrun. The losses left much of their lands unprotected. If he’d either sent a proper host or just left the garrisons to defend their own castles, the Lannisters would not have had their early success in the War of the Five Kings.”

 

Sansa didn’t know if that was true. She doubted that Jon would give her an accurate assessment in any event, because he seemed to have grown a deep sense of loyalty toward the man whose life he once saved.

 

“My lady,” Sansa began, “what would you council?”

 

“I raised Tully’s misstep so we may avoid repeating it, Your Grace. Task the riverlords with defending themselves, and do not take from them any of their strength. See that none meet the king’s levies in the field, and that the only combat occurs when our enemies are forced to scale castle walls. If Mace Tyrell truly governs the realm in his good-son’s name, it seems to me his tactics can be countered with food stuffs.”

 

“Food stuffs?”

 

“Aye,” said Jon. “Lady Waynwood means to say that if the castles are well-provisioned, the riverlords will be able to wait out a siege from Lord Tyrell. The man has a history of preferring prolonged sieges to aggressive attacks.”

 

Sansa liked the notion and asked, “How would we do that?”

 

Jon offered, “Walder Frey’s vaults were stuffed with an ample sum of gold and a staggering amount of silver.” He admitted that he should have mentioned this fact during their previous meetings, then continued, “If we could arrange for tradesmen to ferry up the mouth of the Trident, the three or four centuries of Frey wealth that we rowed to Darry could fill the riverlords’ stores many times over.”

 

“And then the rest of the Vale soldiers would march North?” Stark questioned.

 

Her brother nodded to her. “They’d be best off rafting much of the way up the Green Fork instead of marching those leagues, but yes, I believe that’s what they should do.”

 

“Her Grace would remain here, though,” suggested Albar Royce.

 

“Aye,” said Jon.

 

“If Queen Sansa stays at the Gates of the Moon,” mused Templeton. He quickly added, “And, I believe it wise she do just that. Her Grace would need name a High Commander of her armies, lest disagreement create divisions.” He met her eyes and outlined, “Lords oft lead their own knights and lowborn soldiers into battle, but without a king or lord paramount in the camps, the lords may argue. No lord or landed knight wishes to look weak in the eyes of his rivals, so they rarely acquiesce to anyone but their liege lord.”

 

“Who would you suggest? Yourself?”

 

“I’m flattered that you would think of me, Your Grace. And should you choose to name me, I would do all I could to serve you well. However, choosing from among your most powerful lords would make it easier for the others to bend to that man’s commands. Ninestars can rival the wealth and swords of any lordship of the Vale, yet I am still a knight, not a lord.”

 

 _Mayhaps I should change that,_ Sansa thought. _Symond Templeton has been trustworthy from the start._ Nevertheless, she didn’t know how the other lords might react to raising up House Templeton, or if it was even within her authority to do so. _Now’s not the time to chance upsetting them._

 

“Bronze Yohn or the Greatjon,” offered her half-brother.

 

Albar proposed, “If Yohn is to be the Master of Laws for Her Grace and Regent for Lord Arryn, then it wouldn’t be much of a departure to put him in command of your armies.”

 

“Are those two the only lords at Castle Darry?” asked Waynwood.

 

Jon said, “Them and Lord Goodbrook, who we found in a dungeon cell at the Crossing. No others.”

 

Ser Symond added, “Lord Uthor Tollett of Grey Glen and Lord Royce Coldwater are both sworn to House Royce and are marching and sailing to meet my host, respectively.”

 

Lady Waynwood dismissed the notion. “There’s no sense in naming one of Yohn’s bannermen when we can name _him_. If we mean to tell the riverlords to guard their own castles, I expect Lord Goodbrook will want to return to his.”

 

“Regarding the first two as commanders,” stated Jon, “Lord Royce is more cautious and Lord Umber more aggressive. Either would do well, by my estimation.”

 

Bronze Yohn seemed gallant and honorable, in the brief time Sansa had known him. Her impression of Greatjon Umber from his visits to Winterfell had been of a brash, almost savage man. _When I was a child, he was scary. But, I can’t be a child any longer._

 

Sansa said, “Winter is coming, my lords. Though the Vale’s mountains know more of winter than most of the south, who better to lead a trek into the North than the Lord of Last Hearth?”

 

Jon didn’t look like he wholly agreed, didn’t say anything against her decision. Sansa worried if she should have picked Lord Royce, but did not wish to appear fickle.

 

“If they are to make that journey,” said Randa, “where would they march to first, Queen Sansa?”

 

She had no idea. Sansa didn’t offer an answer right away and wondered if the others could see through her still expression. Outwardly, she tried to portray a thoughtful queen, rather than the worried girl she felt like.

 

“Mayhaps this is something that my High Commander should choose, Lady Randa.”

 

Symond Templeton told Sansa, “The commander-general should have some freedom to change our plans, but it would be best to decide a primary course before setting off.”

 

Albar Royce suggested, “If I recall the maps correctly, the two castles closest to the Kingsroad are Barrowton and White Harbor, my queen.”

 

Jon corrected him, “You are not far off. Though, both are cities, in truth. The castle of House Dustin, Barrow Hall, lays atop Great Barrow Hill and _overlooks_ Barrowton. Also, New Castle is the name of the Manderly grand-holdfast _within_ White Harbor. Nonetheless, your assessment is correct in the placement of both. They are nearest to Moat Cailin, the Kingsroad, and the south.”

 

Albar asked, “To which should the armies go, Ser Jon?”

 

“If we mean to gather allies, White Harbor would be the proper destination. House Dustin. . . I cannot remember the precise arrangement, but there’s a marriage that binds them with the Boltons.” Jon looked to Anya Waynwood and asked, “My lady, have you learned anything about how the forces loyal to the Dreadfort are arranged across the North?”

 

“Last I heard, Stannis Baratheon, whether you wish to call him a lord or a king, was still at the Wall.” She noted, “The Father only knows for what reason. Regardless, Lord Bolton must assume that his greatest threat lays to the north of Winterfell, where his bastard intends to wed. . .”

 

 _Don’t say that he’s going to marry Arya,_ thought Sansa.

 

“As we have discussed before,” insisted the Stark maiden, “the bride is not truly my sister. Queen Cersei merely clothed some girl from King’s Landing in a grey cloak.”

 

“Even an imposter can have clout if used in a deft manner,” Waynwood countered.

 

Randa Royce said, “An imposter of a _younger_ daughter, my lady. We have here the confirmed eldest daughter of Lord Stark, the older of the two sisters of the Young Wolf.”

 

“For the nonce,” supplied Lady Waynwood, “it makes no matter; a false Stark doesn’t change our strategy.”

 

“As I understand, Queen Stark,” said Templeton, moving the discussion along, “the plan is for me to lead our forces, once they have gathered here, down to ships awaiting our arrival at Ironoaks.”

 

He paused and looked for Lady Waynwood’s acknowledgement.

 

“Then, we’ll row around the coastline of the Bay of Crabs to Castle Darry. There, a small contingent will be directed to Riverrun to aid in the defense of the Riverlands-”

 

Lady Waynwood broke in, “Ser, the host will need wait for the arrival of tradeships bearing food, which may take considerable time, because we’ve yet to even send word of our need of them. Furthermore, the merchants must needs travel to where food is plentiful, most like to Pentos or Tyrosh, to acquire their goods.”

 

Templeton responded, “Aye, my lady. After that, the levies’ll turn north, either on the march or by barge.”

 

“Ser Symond,” Albar interjected. “What about Harrenhal? What about all Her Grace spoke of?”

 

Sansa cringed. _Should I not have said anything about that black fortress? I know that we discussed this. . . but would Harrenhal just be a distraction?_

 

Lady Waynwood answered, “As I said, taking the castle should be an easy thing, Lord Albar. The charred monstrosity sits some twenty leagues south of Darry. It would not be a long deviation from their route to march a garrison to Harrenhal.”

 

“Once Harrenhal is settled,” Templeton said, rejoining his earlier train of thought, “the host would travel northward to Barrow Hall, if Lord Umber fancies a battle, or White Harbor if he means to gather allies.”

 

Sansa eyed her half-brother. _Jon knows the North better than anyone else here. I spent my days in Winterfell learning from Septa Mordane. He spent his boyhood learning from Father._

 

Responding to her look, Jon said, “I would council Her Grace to send men to White Harbor and the Merman’s Court, to call upon Lord Manderly to fulfill his ancestor’s oath and add his forces to hers.”

 

His discussion of Wyman Manderly was interrupted by squires and servants. They filed in and provided everyone assembled with platters from the kitchens. Young Gyles Grafton refilled everyone’s mugs.

 

Jon waited for them all to leave before continuing. “After summoning White Harbor to your cause, I believe your army should march on Winterfell. If indeed Lord Bolton and his allies are there for his son’s wedding to a false bride, we could make an end to the fight in one siege. Attacking the Barrowlands? We’d be fighting to take back the North by piecemeal.”

 

His words and the food seemed to settle the debate for the nonce.

 

After several minutes without anyone looking up from his or her meal, Lady Anya began, “Ser Jon?”

 

The address struck Sansa as odd. _I don’t think Lady Waynwood has yet called Jon by name._

 

“Ser, our good queen allowed me to see the letters Bronze Yohn sent from the Twins. In one of them,” Waynwood said of Yohn Royce, “he made mention of what you said would be done with every Frey.”

 

Sansa Stark remembered the message. _‘House Frey is at an end, Lady Sansa. So said your brother in our justice council, and so too I agreed.’_

 

Lady Waynwood continued her thoughts, “I ask because of my concern for Cynthea and Sandor.”

 

_Sandor?_

 

She was beyond confused about why the Lady of Ironoaks would make mention of the Hound. _Maybe Jon was wrong, maybe he didn’t die. . ._

 

“Who?” Ser Jon asked.

 

“Two Frey children born of a Waynwood mother - Carolei Waynwood. She is a distant kinsman and a lady-in-waiting of mine.”

 

_Not the Hound, just a Frey. Sandor Frey._

 

“She returned home to my castle after her husband, Ser Geremy Frey, drowned. . . mayhaps, seven years ago. Her boy, Sandor, is two-and-ten and squires for my second son at the Bloody Gate. Carolei’s daughter is nine and my ward. Queen Sansa? Ser Jon? What do you intent to do with them?”

 

Uncertain, she didn’t reply.

 

Lady Waynwood added, “I hope I do not err in being forthright about this, Your Grace. I thought it prudent to make my inquiry before you judge them by the sins of their grandfather.”

 

“Lord Yohn and I faced a similar dilemma at Darry,” said Jon, his voice heavy and deliberate. “The agreement that Lord Umber, Lord Royce, and I reached should do well by your wards. Bronze Yohn offered to take custody of several Frey children and their mothers, among them two boys and two girls born of a Royce mother.”

 

“He _took custody_ of them?” Sansa questioned. “As in. . . the children are his prisoners?”

 

“No. They are his wards. They were to disavow the name _Frey_ and any attempt to continue their great-grandfather's line, in all its disgrace. They were told not to leave Runestone and its surrounding lands.”

 

Lady Waynwood jumped in, "I would consent to such an agreement, should Queen Sansa see fit to offer it."

 

She did so, and Anya Waynwood affirmed the compact.

 

* * *

 

As the council meeting continued to drag on, Sansa was more than ready to be done for the night. However, she was not eager to be the first to concede that she was tired. _A queen must be strong. She must lead._

 

“Your Grace,” began Lady Waynwood, ceasing her more friendly tone.

 

_Will lords and ladies always act so. . . so stiff with me?_

 

Once, Sansa had dreamed of being a queen. _I was only a child back then. I was to be Joffrey’s queen._ She remembered thinking the idea of the formal demeanor of a royal court to be refined and stately. Her younger self had thought that it would make Winterfell pale in comparison. _But now. . . the behavior of Father’s household would be courtesy enough._ For half a moment, her mind drifted towards the sorrow and shame she felt for how she’d betrayed her father to Queen Cersei, but Sansa forced herself not to dwell on such thoughts.

 

Without saying a word, Sansa Stark raised her palm, gesturing for Lady Anya to continue.

 

“Do you intend to name a Kingsguard?”

 

 _The Kingsguard._ Sansa had no desire to even say the name of that band of honorless men who so readily battered a scared girl. _I was near on becoming a queen, but closer to a friendless orphan beneath my bruises._ She shuttered at the thought of white-cloaked knights following her every step, morning to night.

 

_Must I have an outfit of knights shadowing me?_

 

“Or be unguarded? That wouldn’t be wise,” Albar said, and Sansa realized that she’d spoken the question aloud.

 

 _A Kingsguard. . ._ She was delicate with even _thinking_ the word.

The others at the table quietly agreed with Albar that sworn swords were necessary.

_Are men like the Kingsguard knights required for me? Father didn’t surround himself with knights. He had Jory Cassel_ , she thought.

 

The image of the guard-captain’s kindly uncle, Ser Rodrik, came to mind - along with the silly white whiskers he wore with such pride. _Rodrik Cassel was a knight. Someone like him wouldn’t be so bad._

 

Ser Loras Tyrell came next in her thoughts. _The Knight of Flowers_. Sansa couldn’t imagine him as a brute, like Boros Blount or Meryn Trant. _But,_ she recalled, _Lord Royce said Ser Loras murdered his son in a rage._

_Does every knight have it in him to become a beast?_

 

She remembered the night that Ser Lothor Brune had looked every bit a demon cloaked in darkness, a tip of deadly steel in the shadows. . . _When he stepped into my room in Lord Petyr’s keep, when Ser Lothor saved me from the singer. . ._ Despite the man’s harsh appearance, Sansa had glimpsed a goodness within him on that night.

 

“Your Grace,” said Randa, catching Sansa’s attention. “Do you recall what we read on the Arryn Kings of old? The Kings of Mountain and Vale?”

 

Sansa nodded to her companion and teacher.

 

“And of their most trusted guard. . .” continued Myranda Royce, hinting at something. “Before the arrival of the Targaryens?”

 

“Yes!” replied Sansa. “The _Serjeant-at-Mace_ , you mean?”

 

“And the Falcon’s Talons,” Randa finished.

 

“My lady?” asked Jon.

 

Sansa explained, “For the six thousand years between the landing of the Andals and the Targaryens’ conquest, the Arryns called themselves the _Kings of Mountain and Vale_. Instead of a Kingsguard, which Aegon Targaryen started, the Arryn kings chose seven, sworn knights and a ‘Serjeant-at-Mace.’”

 

Myranda Royce added, “He was like the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

 

“Jon, to serve under the Serjeant, the kings would name _seven_ knights, in honor of the new gods, like Aegon’s Kingsguard many centuries later. But together with their commander, there were eight of them.”

 

Albar Royce tucked his thumbs to his palms and held up his hands. “Eight,” he said, cocking his wrists so his fingers might better illustrate his meaning. “Like the talons in a falcon’s two claws.”

 

Sansa fought to keep a grin from her lips.

 

“Well said, my lord,” Myranda commented to her brother, and Sansa could hear the smile in the older girl’s voice.

 

“They were allowed to marry,” Randa continued, in her explanation of the honored high-guard of the Eyrie. “But, the king chose each bride, who would also have to swear to serve her king above all others, even her family.”

 

_Father’s swordsmen, like Ser Rodrik and Alyn, could take wives._

 

She told her half-brother, “The knights of the Falcon’s Talons would swear a blood-oath too, of course. Much like the Kingsguard, they couldn’t inherit, and they served for life.”

 

Curious, Ser Jon asked, “And children?”

 

Sansa couldn’t recall and looked to Randa.

 

Ser Symond Templeton, though, answered, “From mine own lessons - which I dare say ended before you were born, Queen Sansa - the children of the Talons were bound by their fathers’ oaths until their fathers died.”

 

_So. . . they weren’t sworn against fathering children either, like Fat Tom and his son, TomToo._

_Is that part of it?_ Sansa asked herself. _Is being denied those things part of why the Kingsguard was so. . . what’s the word. . . when you tell other people to act one way, but do the opposite yourself. . ._

 

The Knight of Ninestars said, “Ser Jon, I believe the queen and Lady Myranda are building up to naming a _Serjeant-at-Mace_ and _Talons_ of her own. Though, most like she’ll choose a name reminiscent of wolves and winter.”

 

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “That’s very much what I think, but only just now. I haven’t thought of a name or anything, ser.”

 

“That can keep for another time, Your Grace,” said Randa. “As can the choosing of your _Talons._ ”

 

“If any of you would care to suggest someone now,” Sansa proffered. “I would listen.”

 

_The choice is mine. I can choose men like Rodrik and Jory and Tomard or even like Lothor Brune, in place of the ogres that King Robert, Joffrey, and Cersei picked. I might even select a man like. . ._

 

Lady Waynwood spoke first, and as Sansa expected, she mentioned one of her sons, “Wallace is seven-and-ten and my youngest. He squires for his eldest brother within Ironoaks. I expect that he shall prove his worth and earn his knighthood by year’s end. Like his brothers, Wallace is staunch and honorable.”

 

“Your Grace,” said Templeton. “Of the young knights of the Vale, Lord Redfort’s fourth son is mayhaps the finest swordsman. Though at his age, he no doubt lacks experience in grander affairs of martiality.”

 

 _Mychel Redfort. The squire who bedded Mya, then shamed her and took another girl as his wife._ Sansa exchanged a look with Myranda, then said, “I shall consider him, ser. I would prefer to meet the young knight in time, and before I make a decision.”

 

“If you think him too inexperienced, mayhaps Ser Lucas Corbray.”

 

 _Gold and boys and promises._ She felt a shiver at the recollection of lord Petyr’s words.

 

“I assure you,” offered Symond, watching her expression, “he is not like either of his brothers: the ineffectual Lord Lyonel or the depraved Ser Lyn. He was born by his late father’s second wife, making him only their half-brother.”

 

Thinking on her own half-brother, she asked his opinion. “Ser Jon, might you suggest a knight? Mayhaps a trusted Riverlander or a Northman?”

 

He shifted in his seat, before announcing, “Your Grace, I would be honored to join your guard. I offer mine own name.”

 

Sansa Stark knew him to be trustworthy. _I think I’ve known that since before I learned to care about him._

 

Unbidden, the memory of Jon’s wedding came to the forefront of her mind.

 

 _He was so happy then. He had a bride and a holdfast. Jon saw his life ahead of him, a life of his own._ Sansa knew how important his independence had once meant to Jon. _Could I steal from him this second chance to be his own man, the chance to follow wherever his heart leads him. . ._

_No,_ she decided. _Not even if he freely offers to set aside a future of his own making to remain chained to my side for the rest of his days._

 

She was afraid of embarrassing him, so Sansa held back her true feelings. “Jon, brother, let’s you and I talk about that further, but not now.”

 

_Is his happiness the only reason I want to refuse Jon’s offer? Or is it. . .the thought of seeing that face every day? A face, so like. . . A reminder of my. . ._

 

“My queen?”

 

Sansa needed a moment to notice that Ser Symond was trying to catch her ear. “It’s been a long day for all of us,” he conceded.

 

She nodded back and added, “If no one else has any urgent. . . anything urgent for now. . . let’s end the meeting. Yes?”

 

Relieved to hear their agreement, Sansa Stark let everyone else begin to filter out of the solar.

 

Jon stayed behind.

 

_I’m far too tired to begin this conversation._

 

She assured him that on the morrow they’d talk about his offer. He appeared none too pleased. _It’ll be for the best, Jon. I swear. You’d never be happy following at my heels day after day._

 

After several seconds, Sansa was thankful to hear him say, “You look like you could sleep for a fortnight, _my lady sister._ Get yourself some rest.”

 

Haltingly, he stepped close to her chair and bent down. For a moment, Sansa didn’t understand what for. Her bastard brother put a hand on the crown of her head and leaned forward to kiss her brow.

 

She couldn’t recall him ever doing that before.

 

Without another word, Jon Snow turned and strode out of the room.

 

Sansa Stark, the aspiring _Queen of the North and the Trident,_ then dragged her leaden limbs from the solar to her bedchambers.


	58. Daenerys - A Return

Queen Daenerys Targaryen sat in the middle of a trampled-down circle of long grass. It felt both strange and familiar to be surrounded by Dothraki once again.

 

She winced at a sting in the small of her back. One of the old women tending her said, “The mud and horse dung will help with the bites from the blood-ants.”

 

Dany lifted up her arms to allow the other two to coat her ribs with the same damp mixture. They nodded in agreement with the woman inspecting her back.

 

“Yes. Now you see? Feels better. It is known, _khaleesi.”_

 

 _Khaleesi_. She welcomed the title. _I was first called that when I married my Drogo. Today,_ Dany mused, _they address me with the Dothraki word for queen because of my Drogon, my child._

 

* * *

 

Only hours earlier, Khal Jhaqo had found Daenerys and Drogon eating a charred horse. Jhaqo had ordered his bloodriders to trample her and to bring him the dragon’s head.

 

Drogon had burned them and their _khal_ , before they got close.

 

Most of Khal Jhaqo’s _khalasar_ immediately fled, scattering into the miles of high brush at the sight of their _khal_ burning alive. Out of the eight-and-ten thousand Dothraki who rode with Jhaqo, only four thousand stayed and bowed to Daenerys.

 

* * *

 

She leaned forward at the request of the eldest of her new handmaidens. As Dany looked around at the carts and tents of her new horde, she found it discomforting that she recognized many the faces.

 

_They rode with Khal Drogo. I haven’t seen any of them in more than a year and one half. . . They deserted me when Drogo fell from his horse, when the witch used her blood-magic to curse the son in my belly and stole the fire in my husband’s eyes._

_They abandoned me. These riders abandoned me for Jhaqo. Others did so for Pono. Now one of the two traitorous ko’s who defied me is dead - burned in Drogon’s fire. One day, I’ll have my revenge on Pono too._

_“I swear it by my sun-and-stars. . .”_

 

“What, _khaleesi?_ ” asked a handmaiden.

 

Dany shook her head. “Nothing.”

 

One of the outriders strode over to her. His _arakh_ knocked against his hip with each bow-legged step. He asked, “ _Khaleesi,_ where will we ride?”

 

In the language of the Dothraki, she stated, “Once I’m ready, we ride for my city.”

 

* * *

 

Her dragon’s shadow had followed her for most of the way to Meereen, but Drogon broke off from Dany’s route just before the grand city’s walls peaked over the hillside. _He still has no love for the structures of man, not even if it means he has to keep away from me and from his brother, Rhaegal._ She watched him fly off and prayed that when next she needed him, Drogon would know to return to her.

 

As they got close, she was shocked by what she saw. The Yunkai’i encampment and slave market were gone. In their place, Daenerys found an entire host of corpses and burned wreckage.

 

_I brokered a peace with the slavers before I left. By taking a husband who had their backing, I bought their word that they’d return peacefully to Yunkai. Why do I now find so many of them dead? Could this be Hizdahr’s doing? Did he strike against the armies of Yunkai?_

 

Dany couldn’t think of why anyone loyal to her would have broken her accord with the Yunkai’i noblemen.

 

As they reached the foot of the massive city walls, Queen Daenerys waved up at the Unsullied guarding the main gate.

 

“ _Khaleesi,”_ uttered her elderly handmaid. She pointed at Dany’s face.

 

Daenerys touched her cheeks and realized that any guard looking down at her would see only a mud-covered woman at the head of a Dothraki horde. Dany was dressed in Dothraki leathers. She wore a scrap of cloth as a headscarf to block the Essos sun, because her silver hair was still growing back. She looked nothing like she did when she’d ridden off on her dragon that bloody day at the fighting pits.

 

One of her serving women brought over a basin of water and washed her face.

 

She called up to the Unsullied. Though they still didn’t open the towering portcullis for her, one of the guards came out of the yett-gate, an iron door cut into the city gates. Once the Unsullied guard could see her up close, he knelt before his queen, then saluted up at his fellows.

 

* * *

 

Queen Daenerys gasped at what awaited her inside the city walls. _Gods! What happened to my city? To my people?_ The damage was extensive. At first sight, it seemed nothing had escaped death, ruin, and fire. Corpses lined the streets. The once-familiar homes and shop-stalls were unrecognizable.

 

She shouted to the guards, “Unsullied, come here and tell me of this. . . this _horror!”_

 

The closest soldier marched to her. “This one will tell you, my queen. War outside the city and war inside. Yunkai and the Sons of the Harpy and the squid-men.”

 

“Squid-men?” she asked.

 

“Yes, my queen. Squid-men from the sea.”

 

The Unsullied were poorly equipped to explain the complexities of a civil rebellion or the origin of an unfamiliar army. Instead of asking anything further, Daenerys rode straight for her Great Pyramid, yearning for answers.

 

* * *

 

In her chambers inside the Great Pyramid, she was welcomed by her scribe and her handmaidens. “I missed you,” she told them.

 

A tearful Missandei said, “This one. . . I am gladden to see Your Worship’s face.” Irri and Jhiqui left to find Dany clean clothing and to ready a bath for her.

 

Alone with Daenerys, the Naathi girl told her that Skahaz mo Kandaq had taken charge of the city after the fighting was through. Dany asked her scribe to find him.

 

Once Missandei led him to the queen’s apartments, the Shavepate’s mouth upturned in a brutal smile. As a girl, the sight of such a face would’ve sent her running, but now it only made her wroth to see it. Daenerys could think of no sophisticated way of asking about her city, and the Shavepate was not one accustomed to delicacy.

 

“What happened?”

 

To Missandei, Master Kandaq said, “Leave us, girl.” Then, he answered Dany’s question, “War, _Your Magnificence._ ”

 

The Shavepate could see that his queen wanted more details. “The Masters of Yunkai presented us Sea-captain Groleo’s bloody head. They demanded that we give them the green dragon’s head, if we wished the Yunkai’i to keep their word and honor the peace.

 

“Your knight led a charge to defeat the Yunkai’i.” He added, “Ser Whitebeard delayed longer than he should have, but even he could wait no more.”

 

She gestured for Skahaz to continue.

 

“As soon as he and the Unsullied were outside the gates, the cockless Sons of the Harpy attacked. They killed every freedman they saw: the men, the women, the children. My Brazen Beasts were outnumbered and would have been overrun, if not for the squidmen of your Sunset Kingdoms.”

 

“ _Squidmen?_ Who are these, ‘Squidmen’?”

 

“They painted squids on their chests, and their leader called himself _Greyjoy_. Ser Knight called them, ‘The Fleet of Iron’.”

 

“And, where is Ser Barristan? I need to speak with him.”

 

“Dead.”

 

 _Dead?_ She shuttered at the thought.

 

The Shavepate offered no condolences and his voice held no sympathy, just the brutal telling of what happened. “He challenged the Squid King to a duel for control of the city. They killed each other. The Greyjoy died from a sword through his torso. Wounds and fever ended Barristan Whitebeard’s life some days later.”

 

Dany stared at him, not sure if she believed his tale. She pursed her mouth to keep her bottom lip from quivering. “If Ser Barristan is dead,” Daenerys posed, “how is it my pyramid still remains unbloodied? What of the Harpies or this _Fleet of Iron_?”

 

“How? You ask me, _‘How?’”_ He snapped at her, “I did what _you_ should have. What _I told you_ to do! I _acted_ , Your Worship. I told the Unsullied to kill the squids, as I’d told the squids to kill the Sons of the Harpy, half a day earlier.”

 

What he was telling her made little sense to Daenerys. “And they’re dead? Who exactly?” _What has this butcher left me of my grand city? Who survives of my people?_

 

“Your enemies are dead,” he told her. “The Harpies and all who backed them, yes.”

 

Focusing on the phrasing of the later part of the man’s answer, Dany asked, “ _‘All who back them?’_   You speak of the Great Masters, don’t you? They were my people too.”

 

The Shavepate’s laugh was joyless and harsher than other men’s curses. “Once already, I had this talk. With Ser Grandfather.” He glared at her with his small, black eyes. _A beetle’s eyes_ , she thought.

 

“What about the hostages? Did you think for a moment about them, before you began your war with Yunkai? What happened to my bloodrider, and to Hero, to Daario Naharis,” _My Daario. . ._ “and King Hizdahr’s kin? Yes, what happened to my husband?”

 

He scoffed at her. “Your savage, your eunuch, and your. . . your _sellsword,_ had no chance. The Yunkai’i would never have allowed them to live.”

 

“And my husband? Where is King Hizdahr? What does he have to say for all this?”

 

“Dead.”

 

“He’s dead?”

 

Dany couldn’t make sense of any of this. On the day she rode off on Drogon, Meereen was at peace. The slaving masters of Yunkai were inside her city to join in a day’s festivities at the fighting pits.

 

“You killed him, didn’t you?” she accused. “You killed the man I took for a husband.”

 

He didn't deny it.

 

“Do you remember the locusts?”

 

“What _locusts,_ Shavepate?”

 

“The _poisoned_ ones,” he snarled. “The great and noble Hizdahr zo Loraq, the Scion of Old Ghis and the Fourteenth of His Name, tried to murder you with a bowl of sweet, hot, and _poisonous_ locusts.”

 

_What is he talking about?_

 

“Even Barristan Whitebeard realized it. He put your husband into a dungeon for the crime.”

 

“If I were to believe that tale,” she said, quickly adding, “and do not for a flicker of time believe that to be the case. . . what of the others? Who else did you kill?

 

“Shavepate, did you murder Ser Barristan?” Daenerys watched his face for the smallest hint of culpability or regret, but saw none. “You could never have slain Ser Barristan Selmy yourself, but did you poison him? Did you act the coward and murder my knight? _Did you?”_

 

Skahaz mo Kandaq barked, “Come here.” He dug his knobby fingers into her arm.

 

Queen Daenerys commanded, “Unhand me! How dare you!”

 

“I’ve heard enough of your squealing! I’m not hurting you!” The Shavepate pushed through the curtains and pulled her out onto the balcony gardens. Once outside, he let go of her, and Daenerys stumbled backwards. Skahaz pointed out at the city below. “Open your eyes and _see_ for once!”

 

“What would you have me see?” Dany hissed back at him. “Your murders? I’ll see your head spiked atop my walls. _That_ is what I’ll see!”

 

“ _See_ , I told you.” His voice was low and menacing. “You say these are my murders? I will show you mine: There, there, and there. Some bodies remain of dead pirates at the foot of the pyramids of Loraq and Galare, and in front of the Temple of the Graces. Those are _my murders._ That blood is mine.

 

“But, I point to everywhere else, now. The bodies in the streets,” he declared, motioning with his arm. “The dead in their houses.” Skahaz pointed at several burned homes. “Off behind us, a pile of _your people_ lays. You could build a pyramid with their bones. Those murders are _yours_.”

 

As he stared at her, his hooked nose and scarred brow faded from her view. Daenerys Stormborn saw only his eyes. _They’d be lifeless eyes, if not for the anger burning behind them_.

 

The Shavepate told her, “You murdered them when you ordered me to hold back. You commanded me not to kill our enemies. I could have stopped the Harpies then.”

 

He pointed at a cloud of smoke rising from elsewhere in the city. “A fire burns in Daznak’s Fighting Pit. It has burned day and night for three weeks. . . and still we have thousands of dead waiting their turn.”

 

Dany felt sick to her stomach. Whether the dead were the fault of Skahaz mo Kandaq, or the _squid-men_ , or herself, the sight and stench of it all was too much.

 

“Leave me,” she commanded. When he lingered, Daenerys shouted, “Out!”

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Queen Daenerys Targaryen went down to her throne room. Poorly mopped blood had left pink stains on the tiled floor. Debris had been pushed into a corner, rather than properly cleared away.

 

Skahaz and Grey Worm sat alone near the head of a grand table. Brazen Beasts, cowled under their colored hoods and hidden behind their bronze masks, stood guard at a distance.

 

Dany approached the pair of leaders, and her Unsullied commander greeted her with clumsy fondness. Skahaz only grunted.

 

Daenerys stared him down. Coldly, she told the Shavepate, “That is not how you shall address your queen. And, I am still queen.”

 

Skahaz’s piggish eyes met her challenge, but then his brow relaxed. “Of course, Your Worship. You are my queen. What do you want of me?”

 

She would have preferred a more respectful tone. _At least he backed down. I can hardly expect more from the artless brute._

 

“You didn’t tell me how my city now stands,” Dany said. “What of its conditions? What of my dragons? What of Rhaegal and his long missing brother, Viserion?”

 

Skahaz began to speak, but crumbs fell from his mouth. He choked down a mouthful of food and then said, “Your city is safe from enemies and plague. Fires consumed the pale mare.” He paused, waiting for an objection.

 

_You mean that you slaughtered any you presumed ill and burned their bodies._

 

“Skahaz,” she said, “you say that Meereen is safe, but after all the killing, how can I know that to be true?”

 

“After you fled, your knight assembled a council to rule the city.”

 

“I did not _flee_ ,” she shot back at him. “Send for this _council_ , but never again speak of me with such disrespect. _I rode a dragon_ , Shavepate.” _Like the Targaryens of old._ “I did not tuck tail and run.”

 

“Of course not, Your Magnificence.” He called over several Brazen Beasts and sent them off to find whomever the other councilors were.

 

While they waited, she let him continue.

 

“With the Great Masters dead,” resumed the Shavepate, “I confiscated their wealth in your name. Trade begins to resume in the port. Free merchants and traders don’t dare enter Meereen, yet, but the docks were untouched in the fighting and your people aren’t starving.”

 

“And Rhaegal? Where is he?”

 

“As for your dragons. . .” Skahaz’s words drifted off for a moment. “The one the color of cream has not returned. The Westerosi prince, the one who looked like a stableboy, tried to steal the green dragon and burned for it. He is dead. But, he let free the dragon. It took the black pyramid of House Yherizan for its nest. . . until the squid-captain’s priest interfered, and the dark-skinned slave woman stole him.”

 

“Stole him?!”

 

“Yes, Your Magnificence,” Skahaz returned.

 

Dany expected some expression of humility in the face of his failure, but the man just returned her glare.

 

He explained, “The fire priest was near death when my Beasts brought him before me. Still, he had enough life left in him to feel pain. I wrung the truth from his lips. It is his words that I now tell you.”

 

If Dany could be certain of anything about the Shavepate, it was his brutality. “Proceed.”

 

“The slave called himself Moqorro, though the Greyjoy pirates named him Black Flame. He was a huge man and dark of skin. While your knight dueled, the fire priest fled the hall. He climbed to the top of the Ghazeen pyramid, the one nearest to the dragon’s perch. He wished to bind the beast to the will of the red god.”

 

“How would he do that?” asked the young queen. “What does Rhaegal have to do with some priest’s deity?”

 

Skahaz’s mouth curved upward into a shape resembling a smile. “I asked the slave a similar question.”

 

“And his answer?”

 

“Moqorro insisted that he meant only to help you. Even when I asked him harshly, he kept to his story. The tale went that he was sent from Volantis and took a confusing route on many ships.”

 

“Volantis?” Dany responded. “But, that city meant to sail against me.”

 

“The ruling _triarchs_ of Volantis wished to join in Yunkai’s war,” answered Skahaz mo Kandaq. “They wanted you dead for smashing the slave-trade. But, R’hllor’s followers are slaves, Your Worship. Even more than Astapor or old Meereen, Volantis is a city of slaves. Their men-in-chains outnumber free men, many times over.”

 

“Get back to what happened to my dragon,” she ordered.

 

“In Volantis, the Temple of the Lord of Light and its High Priest sent the fire worshiper on a trade cog before the triarchs could rally the fleet of Volantis. The red priest arrived with the Greyjoy pirates.”

 

“My dragon, Shavepate,” Dany fumed. “Tell me of _my dragon_.”

 

“I am,” he returned. Meeting her eyes, Skahaz grumbled an apology he clearly did not mean. Then, he said, _“Victarion mo Greyjoy_ brought a huge, black warhorn, banded with ancient gold. It was a relic of Valyria. Atop the Ghazeen pyramid, the fire priest chanted ancient spells, ones long forgotten by most of the world. The horn began to change as he said his words. Even at a distance, my Brazen Beasts saw the golden bands glow like torches.

 

“Moqorro said that to give the dragon over to the red god, he needed to do more than speak some olden verses. To me, he admitted, ‘The High Priest saw what the spells required, in his flames.’ Moqorro had to open his veins and smear his blood over the engravings. That connected the horn’s power to him. He said that the final step in his mission was to blow the horn, which would sacrifice his life for the horn’s magic.”

 

“Blood magic,” Dany said with a grimace. “I’ve seen what comes of it.”

 

“Moqorro never completed the spells.”

 

“What happened?”

 

Before Skahaz could answer, Brazen Beasts led the appointed leaders into the throne room: Marselen of the Mother’s Men, Symon Stripeback of the Free Brothers, Tal Toraq - who was the Stalwart Shields’ new commander, and Jokin and Widower of the Stormcrows. Rommo was there to speak for the Dothraki who’d been with Daenerys since the Red Waste, and Strong Belwas was there to speak for himself.

 

She assumed that they’d all heard of her return, because only Belwas made an overt reaction to her presence. The poorly clothed eunuch wrapped his arms around her and picked Dany up off the ground. At another time, she might’ve been gladdened by the gesture. In the middle of questioning the Shavepate and in front of the others, she was irritated by his show of familiarity.

 

“That is enough,” she said. “Now,” Daenerys directed at Skahaz, “Tell me of my dragon and this slave priest.”

 

“A dark-skinned woman was sitting in wait for Moqorro. While he lay dying, the priest said that it was as if the woman knew what he was planning to do and where he would do it. He said that she stabbed him in the back with a poisoned knife before he could blow the dragon-horn.”

 

“Your Worship,” the Shavepate said the courtesy with no warmth in his voice. “The dark-skinned woman washed the priest’s blood from the horn and then covered it in her own. She tried to speak, but Moqorro said that she could not form the words. The sound was only cackles, but the horn glowed just as it had for the priest’s recitation. When she was finished and the warhorn primed, this slave woman sounded it herself. She burned from the inside out.”

 

“And Rhaegal?”

 

Grey Worm answered, “The green dragon took flight to the west. He flew in a straight line until he disappeared beyond my sight.”

 

“He knew where he was going,” supplied the Shavepate. “Bound to her blood, the dragon went to wherever the dark woman sent him.”

 

Dany was in shock. _I lost Viserion when he flew off toward the west. Now I’ve lost a second child of mine as well._ “Who was this _dark woman?_ Where did she come from? Where did she send my Rhaegal?!”

 

Grey Worm replied, “When Master Kandaq wanted more answers than the red priest could give, the Unsullied brought the last of the squid-men to him.”

 

“They told me of her,” said Skahaz. “They had no name for her, only ‘dusky woman.’ She was a concubine given to Victarion the Greyjoy by a man they called _Crow’s Eye._ Whether that man sent her for the purpose of stealing your dragon, we can only guess. But I say, ‘Yes.’ She was too prepared, knew too much.”

 

Dany looked at the others. The leaders of the freedmen companies, the pit fighters, and Rommo the bow-legged _jaqqa rhan,_ all nodded their agreement.

 

_Another of my children missing, the only children I’ll ever have._

 

“But, you have your city,” said Skahaz mo Kandaq. “You have many ships left by the squids, and gold and wealthy things.”

 

Dany was furious. “And what will they buy me?! Will the dead woman ransom back my dragon? Can I buy back the lives of Barristan or Daario or my bloodrider?” Bitterly, she laughed in his face. “To where will I sail with these ships of mine?”

 

“ _Where_ , you ask me?” he growled back. “To your Sunset Kingdoms. To chase after the _Crow’s Eye.”_

 

“What then of Meereen? Shall I leave my city to _your_ devices?”

 

“Yes,” answered the Shavepate. “Who else?” He looked at each of the other men in turn. “Have you not seen what I did for my queen? I killed her enemies. I have for her the ships and gold she wanted. What else must I do for you?!”

 

Dany realized that the entire throne room was staring at them. Not only were the members of Barristan’s council looking on, but also the Brazen Beasts and the servants. Daenerys said to Skahaz, “You shall follow me to my chambers to hear my wishes in private.”

 

He ground his teeth in frustration, but complied. She signaled for Grey Worm to follow as well. To the other men, Daenerys told them, “I will return shortly. Have some food brought out for yourselves while you wait.”

 

As she climbed the marble stairs to her apartments, Queen Daenerys recalled the words of her lost lover, _“You are either the butcher or the meat.”_

_I left Astapor to a council of leaders and soon half the city was at the other half’s throats. Mayhaps a butcher is what I need. . . Is any man more capable of a butcher’s duty than this one?_

 

Once secluded in her chambers, Daenerys asked, “Tell me, Skahaz mo Kandaq, what would you council me to do with Meereen?”

 

“Name me king in your place,” he advised. “I will keep safe Meereen for you, should you ever return.”

 

The prospect of leaving reminded Dany of something the Shavepate had said months earlier. “You once told me that if I left, you were so certain of the downfall of the city that you’d murder your own daughters to save them from fates worse than death.”

 

“Yes, Your Magnificence,” Kandaq told her, acting impatient that she needed the matter explained. “Men call me _the Shavepate,_ because I sheared off the dyed and intricate shock of hair that marked me as a man of the old Meereen, the slaving Meereen. My kinsmen followed my example, as did all the men of Meereen who took up your cause. ‘Shavepates,’ they were called.”

 

“Hair?” she asked, surprised at his irrelevant fixation. “Do you mourn your missing locks?”

 

Skahaz grumbled for a moment, before composing himself and answering her. “Your Worship does not understand.”

 

“Then tell me,” she said, annoyed.

 

“The act of shaving one’s head. . . it became a symbol of a man who threw his lot in with your reign. Do you think it was some small thing? To show the city, the families of the Great Masters, and the Sons of the Harpy that we sided with you? I pledged my life to you when I bared my scalp. Do you think there were not days, _many days,_ when I wished I hadn’t? But by then, I could not go back. Even if I’d helped the Harpies to cast you out, they would have taken my daughters as their bed slaves. To punish me, the Great Masters would’ve put chains around my neck and forced me to clean their vile seed from my girls’ slits, between the turns their men would take mounting them.”

 

He saw the look of revulsion on her face and furrowed his brow. A bead of sweat ran between his eyes and down the length of his nose. Skahaz wiped it away with his thumb. “Have you still not learned the ways of men, Queen Daenerys?”

 

When she said nothing in return, the Shavepate continued, “But now. . . all of the Great Masters are no more. Yunkai, Qarth, and other slaver cities may attack again. I tell you, leave me in command of your city. I will rule it with strength. Just. . . for the safety of your people, leave me the Unsullied.”

 

“Just gift them to you? Grey Worm, how many Unsullied remain to me?”

 

The commander responded, “Soldiers? Fifty-seven centuries. Boys? Seven hundred.”

 

“So five thousand, seven hundred men of fighting age,” surmised Daenerys Stormborn. “Could one thousand keep the city’s peace and guard the walls?”

 

“The Unsullied will do as you command.”

 

Grey Worm was loyal, but of little help with broad strategy.

 

She voiced her conclusion, “That is what I will do. Skahaz, I will have no other kings. But in my country, lords rule over castles and cities in the name of their king or queen. You will swear the loyalty of yourself to me and the loyalty of all your descendants to my chosen heir. You will do this in front of the entire city, and only then shall I name you, Lord of Meereen.”

 

The Shavepate agreed, “I will do that.” He glanced at Grey Worm, then back to her. “And of the Unsullied?”

 

“I will leave you one thousand soldiers and all of the boys. I’ll take all the gold and gems from the Great Masters’ vaults, but leave the rest of their goods and wealth to rebuild the city and for the benefit of my people who choose to stay.

 

“I’ll bring the only of my dragons remaining to me, my spears, my _khalasar_ , and all who wish to follow onto the ships we’ve claimed from those Greyjoy squids and the family fleets of the Sons of the Harpy. And then,” Daenerys Targaryen said with finality. “We leave to seek my other children and finally claim my birthright.”

 

Kandaq looked almost _happy._

 

“Before you sail,” he offered. “I have a gift for you. To see you off in good spirits.”

 

“Tell me what you have.”

 

“It is a gift captured during the battle. You see, Barristan Whitebeard convinced the Tattered Prince’s sellswords, the Windblown, to abandon the Yunkai’i cause.”

 

Dany asked, “How did he do that? What did Ser Barristan have to promise?”

 

“He promised to conquer Pentos and hand it over to the sellswords, Your Worship. Whether to grant such a payment is for you to choose. You see, when the Windblown changed sides, they forced the other sellsword companies to flee for their lives. Among them. . . the Second Sons.”

 

“Ben Plumm,” Dany whispered to herself. “They captured Brown Ben Plumm?”

 

The Shavepate grinned. It was as close to joyful as Skahaz mo Kandaq’s face had ever been in Dany’s presence. He said, “That they did. I made a gift of Plumm’s flesh to the maggots.”

 

“So his death is your gift to me?”

 

“His death? No. . . that is not my gift to my queen. Plumm died two days after the battle for the city. . . after two days of questions, Your Magnificence.”

 

Daenerys was becoming irritated by the Shavepate’s coyness, though he appeared to be enjoying this.

 

Master Kandaq said, “Plumm told me of an important man among the Second Sons. I haven’t been sure what to do with him, so I kept him alive. A small man, truth be told, but according to Brown Ben, he is important in your Sunset Kingdoms.” Skahaz shouted at the door, commanding one of his runners waiting out in the hallway to retrieve the _gifts_ from the dungeons below the Great Pyramid.

 

The wait felt overly long with the silence between Skahaz the Shavepate, Grey Worm, and Daenerys Stormborn. Finally, the Shavepate’s men entered the queen’s apartments. They dragged in a man and two children.

 

Dany looked at the man first. After a moment, she realized that the hunched-over cullion with a tattooed face was. . . her bear.

 

“Ser Jorah. . .”

 

Her knight struggled in his shackles to kneel before her. “Your Grace,” he said.

 

“My queen is lucky,” said the Shavepate. “I almost took this traitor’s head myself. Now, she shall have the privilege.”

 

_No, I can’t. Not now, not ever._

 

Rather than say anything about the fate of Jorah Mormont, Daenerys Targaryen asked, “Who are these children you bring me?”

 

One of them responded, “What children?”

 

_A man’s voice._

 

“That one is my gift to you,” Skahaz mo Kandaq said. “He is the son and heir of your enemy.”

 

“Don’t stop there, my hook-nosed friend. Does Her Grace not know me? I am known the world over, though by many names. I am Tyrion Lannister, the true Lord of Casterly Rock, former Hand of the King and Master of Coin, brother to Queen Cersei the Cunt, the uncle of King Tommen the Kind, and also I am the Imp, Yollo the Drunk, Hugor the Noseless, and, to the men of the mountains, Tyrion the Halfman.”

 

“Tyrion _the Headless,”_ said the Shavepate, “from this day forward.”

 

“I should hope not. I am quite a useful, little man whilst my head’s intact.”

 

“The son of one of the Usurper’s dogs,” replied Dany. “The son of the man who had my niece and nephew slain in their beds.”

 

“On that matter,” he said with a wry smile, “you are not wholly correct. My loathsome father did present the bodies of two children and their mother to Robert Baratheon. Indeed, he believed them to be Rhaegar’s wife and children. However, I know that to be false. If you would spare my life, I can tell you of your nephew. . . _of Prince Aegon Targaryen._ . . and to where he now travels.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks ahead of time for any and all comments or questions!


	59. Lady Nym - A Council of Reachmen

As she watched a team of squires roping off a section of the snowy tourney grounds, Lady Nymeria Sand reflected on the choices of her uncle, Prince Doran Martell.

 

In sending Nym to take Dorne’s advisory seat on the Small Council, Doran wanted to be certain about her not going too far in stirring up disputes. Therefore, he chose to send with her only the most level-headed of his sworn lords, sons of lords, and knights. _“To guard you,”_ Nymeria remembered hearing, _“from your enemies. . . and from your own hot-blooded temper.”_ Thus Lord Gargalen, Jeyne and Jennelyn Fowler, and Lord Dagos Manwoody, as well as the half-mad Ullers of Hellholt, were not asked to make the journey with Lady Nym, as they had with her father. Instead, her main companions were Ser Arron Qorgyle of Sandstone and the heir to Kingsgrave, Mors Manwoody.

 

A gust of wintry air pulled her from her thoughts, and she shivered on her cushioned bench. Lady Nym ran her hand down her leg, resting her thumb and forefinger on two knives hidden beneath her sheer, black gown. With the other hand, she clutched her sable cloak tighter around her.

 

Today’s _festivities_ were being held just outside the walls of King’s Landing, settled between the Lion’s Gate and the King’s Gate. Nymeria sat between Qorgyle and Manwoody at the edge of the royal grandstand, which overlooked the field.

 

Today, Arron and Mors were about to watch a trial-by-combat with her, just as they’d watched another trial-by-combat when last they were in the capitol.

 

_With Father._

Lady Nym bristled at the thought. _A different trial. . . determining the fate of a different Lannister._

 

The night before, Nymeria had coaxed a description of Prince Oberyn’s duel with the Mountain from Qorgyle and Manwoody. The fight they spoke of was a long, dramatic battle between a Dornish spear and a greatsword of cruel steel.

 

 _Father demanded that Gregor Clegane answer for Aunt Elia. He sacrificed himself to find justice for her and for her children._ It might have made for an inspiring tale, if not for the rage and anguish Oberyn Martell’s death created. As she waited for Ser Robert Strong to step onto to field of combat, Nym fought against the suspicion that the Mountain’s death was no more than a mummer’s farce to protect Lord Tywin’s favorite dog. _Gregor Clegane is dead, Tywin Lannister is dead, Amory Lorch is dead,_ she tried to reassure herself.

 

_Back at Sunspear, Tyene herself said she knew the poison Father used. She said that the smallest cut would be more than enough to ensure Clegane’s death. Arron and Mors swear that they saw Father’s spearhead pierce the Mountain’s armor. Thus, Clegane must have died. . . he must have!_

 

Robert Strong appeared on the edge of the tourney grounds. He towered over the onlookers around him. Nymeria looked to Mors Manwoody, asking with her eyes the question she’d prodded him with that morning. _Is that him? His stature, his movements, is that Gregor Clegane?_

 

And to herself, she asked, _Was Father’s death for nothing?_

 

Mors neither spoke nor nodded. Nonetheless, the darkening of his expression was just as clear an answer.

 

Oberyn Martell had been well prepared to face the giant of a man. He’d battled all sorts of fighters in his younger years, when he rode with the Second Sons in the Disputed Lands.

 

 _A spear to counter his reach,_ Nymeria remembered hearing. It’d been her elder sister, Obara, who told her of their father’s intended tactics - years before the Red Viper put them into use. _Sewn disks, in place of mail and plate. Light and swift, Nym, that is how Father plans to kill. . . him._

 

It was unlikely that Alekyne Florent had made any such preparation. Armed with what she learned by listening in on Cersei Lannister, Nymeria and her fellow Dornish spies were able to narrow their investigation. They discovered that Lord Alekyne was offered the choice of the noose or a chance to prove himself to his liege lord, Mace Tyrell. Less reliable talk mentioned that Lord Mace wished to avoid using a noose, in order to dodge the enmity of House Hightower. Lord Leyton’s forces were the last and best guard against further Ironborn assaults up the Mander. As Lord Florent was the younger brother of Rhae Florent, the Lady of the Hightower, Lord Mace hoped for Alekyne to die with honor. . . and not by Tyrell hands. Lord Randyll Tarly, it was said, was not so concerned for the wishes of his own lady wife, Alekyne Florent’s other sister.

 

Furthermore, Nymeria Sand found that the kindly old man in Cersei Lannister’s employ was, in fact, the disgraced Master of Whispers, who’d been thrown off the Small Council as soon as Mace Tyrell became Lord Regent. She chided herself for not making the connection that day in the corridors. Even after she heard the name Qyburn, it still hadn’t occurred to her that the man she met could actually have carried out all of the depravity the fallen maester was rumored to have performed.

 

One of the High Septon’s disciples stepped out to the middle of the tourney field with a Warrior’s Son on either side of him. He announced, “Lord Lancel Lannister confessed his fornication and his involvement in the hunt that felled King Robert Baratheon. As penance, he swore his life to the service of the Faith of the Seven and took a vow of chastity and poverty. Cersei Lannister’s participation in the scheme must needs be decided, but with her accuser now a member of the Faith, the Faith’s champion will show the truth of this charge.”

 

The crowds of smallfolk jeered at the queen. Each shout obscured the words of the thousands of others. The agent for the High Septon was forced to wait for the calls to subside. Finally, he was able to continue. “The champion of the Seven and the Faith will also stand for a second charge against this woman: adultery.” He paused and then added in a calm, but booming voice, “Adultery . . . via incest.”

 

The reaction of the peasantry was even more furious at that accusation. The man didn’t wait this time and yelled over the chants, “Lord Alekyne of House Florent! His Holiness calls you now to the field of justice!”

 

Florent nervously stepped onto the tourney grounds. He waved to the crowd and much of their taunting turned to cheers. He donned his helm and drew his sword.

 

Foregoing an introduction of his own, Robert Strong came forward and the trial began.

 

In an unceremonious start, the monster in a white cloak landed his first slash on attainted Lord of Brightwater’s shield. By the look of it, he jolted the smaller man’s shoulder out of its joint. Florent blocked Strong’s second attack with his own sword, but the force of his foe’s swing threw Alekyne’s blade out of his grip.

 

The third strike separated Lord Alekyne Florent’s head from his shoulders.

 

With the duel complete in a matter of seconds, the giant knight calmly walked over to the head, still contained inside Florent’s steel helm. In a show of vulgar brutality, Cersei Lannister’s champion stomped on the lifeless helmet, collapsing in the faceplate.

 

The High Septon’s crier announced the second trial. He told the nobles and the lowborn alike that Ser Osney Kettleblack confessed to murdering the previous High Septon. The man explained that the matter awaiting the Father’s justice was whether or not Queen Cersei had commanded Kettleblack to commit the crime.

 

The Kingsguard beast needed no rest before he faced the next accuser. Ser Osney Kettleblack stepped forward. He wore black and grey chainmail and stood almost six and a half feet tall. Yet standing across from Robert Strong, he looked no bigger than a squire.

 

“Isn’t he in the Kingsguard?” Nymeria asked Mors.

 

“No, that’s his brother. . . I forget which one, though.”

 

Ser Osney kept his distance at first, circling around Robert Strong. Slowly, Kettleblack retreated closer and closer to one corner of the field. When Strong closed in on him, Osney tried to resist. He darted in for a strike, then retreated out of the lumbering knight’s reach.

 

_Kettleblack could have chosen a stalk of straw as his weapon, for all the effect his sword had on that monster._

 

He made two more attempts, then found himself backed against the boundary rope. The smallfolk in attendance fought to stay beyond sword-reach of the combatants.

 

In a sudden flurry of attacks, Ser Robert used both his greatsword and his shield to batter his foe. Kettleblack crumpled to the ground under the force of them. With Osney on his back, his opponent smashed his head in, with a boot heel.

 

The corpse was dragged away, and the crier announced, “The brothers Ser Osfryd and Ser Osmund Kettleblack just now confessed to fornication with the widowed queen, Cersei Lannister. They are hereby exiled to the Night’s Watch for their sins.”

 

Disappointed at missing out on those potential duels, the crowd made its feelings known.

 

After a brief wait, the High Septon’s man hollered, “The Seven have declared, as proved by today’s combat, Cersei Lannister innocent of-”

 

 The man’s statement went mute beneath the storm of discontent.

 

_Even if the Most Devout are satisfied, the smallfolk certainly aren’t._

 

She felt someone grab her by the shoulder.

 

“Nym!”

 

Sand turned to see that Mors had been trying to get her attention. “We have to get you out back to the Red Keep. There’s like to be a riot!”

 

The little king and the rest of the Small Council had already hurried from the grandstand. Lady Nym nodded to Manwoody and allowed the young man to escort her back to their horses.

 

 _I’ll go back to the Maiden Vault,_ she thought, _to scrub off the stench of this day._

 

* * *

 

Nymeria found herself awake in the middle of the night once again. Two weeks had passed since she watched Robert Strong’s duel. During each of those nights, Nym woke at least once. She never remembered if she’d been dreaming, but once her eyes opened in the darkness, her mind raced with questions.

 

_Who would have sent Doran a false skull? For what purpose?_

 

Tywin Lannister was already dead when Balon Swann set out from King’s Landing with the Mountain’s supposed head.

 

 _Cersei_ , thought Nymeria. _Did she anticipate being arrested by the Faith? Did she counterfeit Clegane’s death in order to save him for the day she needed a champion?_

 

Nym couldn’t imagine a reason for Mace Tyrell to perpetuate such a scheme. _However, that isn’t proof of his innocence. It only proves how little I know on the matter._

 

Nymeria lamented how long Prince Doran had forced her to wait before allowing her the chance to take action. Furthermore, her task in King’s Landing felt little different from additional waiting. Sitting in on Small Council meetings, her part to play was a set of eyes and ears for her uncle. Though in truth, her role was as much to portray the overt spy, so that her sister might pass unsearched for and unseen.

 

 _Tyene, we need to talk,_ Nymeria thought in the darkness. _I know you’re not supposed to contact me and that day you came to me was a one-time occurrence. But, what if Robert Strong really is Gregor Clegane? Have you already sent a message to Uncle Doran? Do you expect me to be the one to do it?_

 

In her bed, Nym tossed about, feeling cold, alone, and restless. She laid there in the dark, waiting for either dreams or dawn.

 

* * *

 

When morning arrived, Nymeria was awoken by a knocking on her door. She realized that she had, in fact, been able to fall back sleep during the previous night. Before she could bid whoever knocked to enter, the door crept open. Lady Nym watched Mors Manwoody step inside uninvited. He tried to still his face, but Mors couldn’t stop his eyes from widening at the sight of Nymeria’s bare shoulders.

 

She sat up and pulled the furs off of herself, but was careful to make the seduction appear accidental. His eyes lingered on her breasts.

 

_A glance, he deserves at least that much._

 

To conceal the worries that were still plaguing her from the night before, Nymeria Sand diverted her thoughts to the past and to Mors. She wondered if the first time she’d bedded him was the first time he ever laid with a woman. Lady Nym recalled how much she’d liked the look of his skin that first afternoon. As a Stoney Dornishman, Mors’s coloring was lighter than the shades typical to most of Dorne. After time in the summer sun, however, dark and minuscule freckles dotted everywhere the sunlight touched. Nymeria Sand enjoyed touching a kiss to his neck for each dot she found, eventually covering his throat with lust marks. _The marks my nails left in his back and chest were yet another way I covered over those little freckles._

 

Their first liaison was many years ago. She’d had her way with him on several occasions since. Despite how much stronger Mors’s body grew during those years, Nym had always been the queen atop their sheets. . . or haystacks, cool-water baths, and once on a smooth-stone cliff in the Red Mountains.

 

She slid out of bed wearing only the throwing knives sheathed around her thigh. Lady Nym walked over to Manwoody. _He is far more confident than he was at four-and-ten._ Nymeria Sand gave him a friendly kiss on the corner of his mouth.

 

She turned to her wardrobe, then asked Mors, “What lack of action have we in store for this morn?”

 

He mumbled for a moment, then told her, “The Lazy Flower called for a session of the Small Council.”

 

“Today?” she wondered. “Did he say why?”

 

Mors chuckled. “You’re fortunate that Tyrell saw fit to inform you of the meeting at all. By the hesitation of the page-boy he sent, I wager even that much was debated amongst his Reachmen.”

 

Nymeria Sand dressed in a thin, russet gown. To obscure the low neckline of the dress, she put on a bronze and gold necklace, which laid flat below her clavicle bone. The back of the gown bared her olive skin down to nearly the base of her spine. She covered her shoulders and her back with her sable cloak that wrapped her in warm fur from the back of her neck, down to her thighs. She’d purchased it in Cobbler’s Square.

 

Nymeria recalled Manwoody’s confusion that first day in King’s Landing. _Mors, the capitol’s Street of Silk is no place for a lady to find something to wear._

She cinched the chain clasp, which held the cloak tightly around her, and said, “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

 

* * *

 

Nymeria Sand enjoyed making an entrance whenever she attended meetings of the Small Council. She reveled in the irritation she could provoke in Mace Tyrell. The bastard daughter of the Red Viper entered the Council’s chambers with Mors Manwoody on her arm, which provided an extra abrasion to the Flower’s pride.

 

House Manwoody’s castle, Kingsgrave, was named for a Reachman king their forbearers slayed long ago. For a thousand years, the Manwoody banners brazenly displayed a skull as their sigil; the skull of a Gardener King. _The Tyrells stole Highgarden out from under the fallen Gardeners. If not for Tyrell’s pride in his House’s false claim as the heirs to House Gardener, Mors’ presence would not so easily irk Lord Mace. But, the man is nothing if not prideful._

 

Lady Nym dismissed her attendant sword with an improperly familiar kiss on his jawline. _One more thing for Tyrell to take issue with._ However, when she turned to face the rest of the Small Council, Nymeria was taken aback by their lack of interest or ire at her arrival.

 

 _They are focused on some woman, whomever she is, with her back to me._ The lady was demurely dressed, her hair bound up and covered by a black and gold headscarf. It was not until Nym circled around to her seat, on the far side of the table from Mace Tyrell, that she saw the woman’s face.

 

_Cersei Lannister._

 

Though she held their attention, the disposed Queen Regent was clearly making no friends among the Reachmen of the Small Council.

 

Lord Mace Tyrell sat at the head of the table, honoring his position as Hand of the King and Regent for Tommen. On his right was Randyll Tarly, the Lord of Horn Hill and Master of Laws. Beside him, Ser Harys Swyft remained the Master of Coin, despite being the only one besides Lady Nym who was not from the Reach. The Master of Ships, Lord Paxter Redwyne, was absent, but the younger of his twin sons, Ser Hobber, sat in his place. Next to the knight from the Arbor, the lanky Grand Maester Gallard, who’d been promoted from archmaester after the murder of Pycelle, watched the others converse. On Mace Tyrell’s other side was the man he chose for his Master of Whispers: his uncle, Garth Tyrell.

 

 _Garth the Gross_ , thought Nymeria. _Has a moniker ever been more apt?_

 

“Let Bolton sort out his heathens,” said Lord Tarly.

 

Lord Garth added, “Northmen are near as savage and stupid as wildlings.”

 

Ser Hobber Redwyne said, “That is Lord Bolton’s duty, is it not? Lord Tywin in his wisdom chose the man as Warden of the North. Why else would he have done so, if not to counter problems such as this?”

 

Though the knight’s face was trained on Mace Tyrell, Nymeria did not mistake that his words were aimed upon Cersei. _Indeed, why raise Roose Bolton to Lord Paramount of the North?_

She thought, _Because the Red Wedding, in all its dishonor, was Tywin Lannister’s scheme._

 

Lady Nym added her voice to the discussion, “Forgive my lateness, my lords. Word of this assembly was late in arriving, no doubt due to the squire’s deficiency.” She ignored the look on Tyrell’s face and said, “If you would be so good, Ser Hobber, please catch me up on the ‘problem’ to which you allude.”

 

“Lord Stannis, my lady.”

 

 _‘My lady,’_ she repeated in her mind. _He’s the only who here who’d trouble himself with even that courtesy_.

 

“He rallies Northmen to his side,” finished Redwyne.

 

“But how?” asked Nym, feigning ignorance. “Ser, why would men of the North rebel against the Warden whom the late Hand of the King chose for them?” _Because men with even a drop of honor would take up arms against someone like Roose Bolton._

 

“A fair question,” said Ser Hobber, clumsily hiding his smirk at Cersei’s expense.

 

Missing the subtext, Mace Tyrell said, “My son, Ser Loras of the Kingsguard, took Dragonstone. Stannis Baratheon is lord without a castle.”

 

_There are never more than seven knights of the White Cloak, my lord. You need not continue reminding us that the Knight of Flowers is one of them._

Lannister’s expression was cowled in scorn. She said, “Lord Mace, is that true? _A lord without a castle?_ What of the greater of his castles? What of Storm’s End? Could it be that the men he tasked with guarding it have finally bent the knee to King Tommen?”

 

“While you were confined, my queen,” Ser Harys Swyft began to explain, but paused to add, “with charges that the gods proved false at your trial.” He resumed, “Jon Connington hired the Golden Company to re-take the castle that the Mad King deprived him off: Griffin’s Roost. In their zeal, it seems the mercenaries continued their march. They captured Storm’s End from the rebel Stannis Baratheon. Also, they took Greenstone from Lord Estermont, Crow’s Nest from House Morrigen, and Rain House from Lord Casper Wylde.”

 

“Jon Connington?” said the Lannister woman with shock. “His Grace’s father, King Robert, had it from reliable sources that Lord Connington died across the Narrow Sea.” She asked Mace Tyrell directly, “Could this be some treachery, mayhaps even sorcery?”

 

Confused, Tyrell simply stared back at her.

 

“How else could some long-forgotten sellsword take hold of the castle that defeated better men than him? Men such was yourself, my lord.”

 

Tyrell answered, “There is nothing that would please me more than to march down the Kingsroad and re-take Storm’s End.”

 

“Splendid,” exclaimed Cersei. “King Tommen will no doubt want to see his good-father off. When can you be ready?”

 

Randyll Tarly bristled in his seat, but Mace Tyrell placed a hand on his bannerman’s shoulder. The Lord Regent said, “Wait, my lady. I am the Hand of the King and rule in our young sovereign’s name. I cannot leave my duties here in the capitol. No matter my own desires, the realm must needs come first.”

 

“I understand, my lord. Only a fool would doubt your bravery. You wish for Storm’s End to be brought back into His Grace’s domain, but cannot leave without abdicating your duties.”

 

The daughter of Tywin the Child-killer turned in her chair to face Nym. “Nymeria,” she began, not affording the Red Viper’s daughter the title of _lady,_ “Your uncle raised a host quite some time ago, did he not?”

 

Warily, Nym nodded.

 

“If the Lord Hand is otherwise occupied, mayhaps Dorne will lend its arms to the reclaiming of the Stormlands?”

 

Randyll Tarly banged his fist upon the table.

 

Mace Tyrell muttered for a moment, searching for his words. Then, he said, “We’ve no need for the Dornish to cross the Southern Marches. Lord Tarly, I would task you with leading a host to Storm’s End.”

 

Cersei Lannister ducked her head in false humility. She looked as content as a cat.

 

_If Tyrell’s right-hand leaves for the Stormlands, Tarly will likely be taking the bulk of the Reach’s strength with him. If ever there was an opportunity for a Lannister to weaken Mace’s hold on the regency, it would be when both Randyll Tarly and Paxter Redwyne are absent from their witless liege’s side._

 

“Lady Lannister?” asked Nymeria. “Though we are no doubt grateful for your council, why are you here?”

 

Anger roiled in the Queen Mother’s eyes. The lords of the Reach appeared pleased by that. _Seldom does a Tyrell ever approve of the actions of a Dornishman. Provoking this daughter of the Rock, however, seems to do just that._

 

Cersei said, “I forgive your lack of courtesy, Lady Sand. But, I am still _Her Grace_ when I am at court. As my trial proved false all the slander against me, I see no reason why I shouldn’t return to my duties for my son’s kingdom. As Lord Mace said earlier, we must needs perform our duties, yes?”

 

Grand Maester Gallard nodded his agreement. “Well said, my queen. My lord, I cannot help but raise the issue of the other troubles of the realm.” He specified, “The Ironborn still threaten every castle on the coast of the Sunset Sea and on the banks of the Mander, even Oldtown. The Citadel is very concerned.”

 

Nymeria Sand knew of the machinations of the Citadel. Her sister, Sarella, was still posing as a novice training to be a maester, like their father had done as a young man. By custom, the archmaesters of the Citadel decided upon each new Grand Maester while sitting in seclusion, in order to prevent the influence of outside voices. The archmaesters themselves, however, were not immune to manipulation, in particular from Lord Leyton Hightower, who was the Voice of Oldtown and Lord Defender of the Citadel, as well as Mace Tyrell’s bannerman and good-father.

 

Sarella sent word to Ellaria Sand, their late father’s paramour, in Hellholt. She in turn relayed the news to Prince Doran. Nymeria’s uncle didn’t entrust his secrets to the wings of a raven if he could help it. Thus, the head of House Martell sent a messenger via ship to tell his bastard niece of the developments in Oldtown, in spite of the time it required.

 

 _Gallard has no business here,_ she thought _. But, he was born a Blackbar of Bandallon, making him both a Reachman and the son of a petty lord sworn to House Hightower._ The Citadel had elected this less experienced archmaester in place of far better candidates. Nymeria Sand recalled the words passed along, _“Archmaesters Ebrose and Vaellyn were in line as the two likely successors to Pycelle. However the first was born in the Vale and the second in Dorne.”_

Nym wondered why her sister had given the news of Gallard’s appointment so little weight and seemed so focused on the departure of someone called Marwyn the Mage.  _Mayhaps it was only due to the third-hand nature of the letters, but this rogue archmaester seeking out the supposed daughter of Aerys Targaryen seemed to worry Sarella more than yet another servant of House Tyrell on the Small Council._

 

Taking up Gallard’s concern, Mace said, “Willas writes that the Hightowers are readying ships to throw back the Iron Islands. My second son, Lord Garlan the Gallant, is gathering a host to recapture the Shield Islands.”

 

“The same is being done in the Crownlands,” said Lord Tarly in his gruff voice.

 

“What do you mean by that?” asked Nymeria.

 

Randyll Tarly didn’t bother to look at her as he said, “From Rosby and Stokeworth lands. We are raising a host.”

 

Cersei Lannister failed to hide her ire. “Stokeworth?! That bloody sellsword who bedded Lollys Lackwit?”

 

“The Lord Protector of Stokeworth,” replied Maester Gallard, “has done nothing against His Grace.”

 

Cersei fumed, but composed herself enough to answer, “The miscreant claims that we sent knights after him. Lies against the Throne should not be tolerated.”

 

Gallard said, “I know of that claim, my queen. Lord Bronn of the Blackwater accuses the knightly husband of Lady Lolly’s sister. No doubt, Falyse Stokeworth sent her husband to quarrel with her sister’s husband. Before Lady Falyse’s disappearance, of course.”

 

Ser Harys Swyft offered, “After all that the Iron Throne has done to raise that man high, how could he _not_ be a loyal subject? No?”

 

“An honorless sellsword,” persisted Lannister. “Treacherous, my lords. We should deal _coldly_ with him.”

 

“That _soldier_ became a knight,” said Tarly. “One whom the king himself anointed and called a savior of the city. The _late_ king,” he directed to Cersei. Lord Randyll watched her face as he told her, “My sympathies for your loss. It must seem all the worse that your own brother poisoned him right before your eyes.”

 

For all that she despised Cersei Lannister, Nymeria Sand felt her gut clench in disgust for Randyll Tarly. _To taunt a mother at the loss of her son,_ she couldn’t stand the callousness of the Master of Laws.

 

“Sellsword or savior, who else would wed that broodmare?” japed Lord Garth Tyrell about Lollys Stokeworth. He ignored both the hatred and despair on Cersei’s face. Though his lips looked dry, Nymeria could hear wet spittle on Garth’s tongue. “And Moryn is one for rallying to his duties.”

 

“Moryn?” questioned Sand.

 

“My brother,” Garth returned, “Ser Moryn Tyrell. He was the Commander of the City Watch of Oldtown. A widower himself, he remained with the Oldtown garrison until he left to wed and bed Gyles Rosby’s widow.”

 

Ser Hobber wondered, “I thought she was dead. Anyways, Lord Rosby’s widow must be well passed child-bearing age.” Addressing Garth the Gross by the title he enjoyed at Highgarden, Redwyne asked, “Lord Seneschal, how will that continue the Rosby line?”

 

The Master of Whispers laughed. He dragged his tongue along his bottom lip, then answered, “In that case, Ser Slobber, it’s fortunate that Moryn has grandsons and great-grandsons of his own!”

 

_More Tyrell influence._

 

In a relatively short time, the seemingly incompetent Mace Tyrell had made a queen of his daughter, managed to place one of his sons in the Kingsguard, granted another the rich lordship of Brightwater Keep, put one uncle on the Small Council, and had now given a second uncle one of the most powerful seats in the Crownlands.

 

Attempting some semblance of focus, Maester Gallard said, “My lords, we have actions we must needs discuss. If I may, my lord,” he entreated Mace Tyrell. The Hand nodded, and Gallard asked, “What of the fall of Riverrun?”

 

Lord Mace made no show of tact. He said, “The castle should never have been bestowed upon a Frey. To do so was unwise and invited reprisal. Edmure Tully bent the knee,” offered Tyrell, believing his thoughts poignant. “He is the true heir to his father. I’m told that his wife would’ve soon birthed him a child, if not for the fall of the Freys. If he was wiser, Lord Commander Jaime Lannister would’ve held the wife until that babe could become a hostage.”

 

Cersei Lannister breathed deeply before she said, “Edmure Tully’s Frey wife stayed with her father. There was no need for Ser Jaime to take hold of her. . . He was needed elsewhere and couldn’t be expected to cart a pregnant girl through the Riverlands.”

 

“Emmon Frey,” Lord Randyll hissed. “How many moon turns did it take the Blackfish to relieve Emmon Redlips of the castle? _Bugger it all,_ I say. Let Brynden Tully have it.” He added, “Provided the Blackfish swears fealty and understands that we’ll delivery him his nephew’s head, should he break from his duty to you, Mace.”

 

“His duty to _the king,”_ corrected Cersei Lannister.

 

_No matter what scorn she deserves, the soiled queen will back down from no man._

 

“Of course, of course,” replied Tyrell. “Everything we do is for my good-son. What else Gallard?”

 

The gangly Grand Maester shuffled scrolls. Ink stains and age marks colored his hands. “The Vale,” he said after a time. “Lord Garth, what news have you of the Eyrie?”

 

The Master of Whispers slurped in a breath. “I am still gathering sources.”

 

“Yes, yes,” agreed Garth’s lord nephew. “It takes time, of course.” Mace then asked the maester, “What else?”

 

“Dorne, my lord.”

 

The Lord Regent’s distain for the Dornish was evident in face, which looked as if he just bit into a rotten plum.

 

Lady Nym knew of Tyrell’s especially bitter feelings toward her late father. _You blamed him for the jousting accident that crippled your son. But, Willas knew better._

Willas Tyrell often wrote to Oberyn Martell, and they took pride in sending each other breeding stallions from time to time. It was a game for them, to see who could best the other with the finest of that season’s horses _._

_No,_ she thought, _the injury wasn’t my father’s fault. The fault rests with you, my lord, for pushing a stripling boy into a tourney before his time. Deep down, mayhaps you know that. . ._

 

Nymeria said, “Prince Doran stands ready. His levies await King Tommen’s need for them, in the Boneway.”

 

“And there they shall stay,” Tyrell responded, bristling. “The last thing His Grace requires is an army of snakes slithering through his lands.”

 

Ser Slobber and Lord Gross chuckled.

 

Cersei Lannister cut in. “We can only hope that Prince Doran keeps his spears trained on his northern borders, in case the shadows at the foot Storm’s End prove too fearsome for the Lord of the Reach for a third time.”

 

“What did you say?” Mace shot back.

 

“Forgive my subtlety, my lord,” she said with insincere courtesy. “I did not intend my words to be too complicated for your understanding. Twice you and Lord Tarly camped around the Baratheon stronghold, and twice you were scared off without so much as a single day’s combat. That is why I am concerned that His Grace might need to enlist the strength of Dorne.”

 

“What other news have you of Dorne, Lady _Sand_?” asked Lord Garth, diverting the conversation away from the tack Cersei Lannister wanted. He wiped his mouth, but a moment later his tongue reappeared to spread saliva across his lips. “What news regarding the princess?”

 

Princess Arianne Martell was absent from Sunspear, that much Nym knew of her cousin. However, Doran neglected to inform either Nymeria or Tyene about where the princess was heading. _That she left Sunspear is supposed to be a secret. How would this stinking, boorish flower know about that?_

 

“Has all that venom you Dornish drink crippled your tongue?”

 

A retort about a crippled Tyrell hung on her lips, but she held back. _Father held Willas in higher esteem than any of his kin. I can embarrass this foul man without lending insult to the one Reachman worth a grain of desert sand._

 

She kept her temper and realized that the question referred to Princess _Myrcella,_ not Arianne.

 

“I’ve told this story before, but if you need reminding. . . Balon Swann and my sister, Obara, hunted the marauder knight, Gerold Dayne, up into the Red Mountains for his attempt on the little princess’s life. I received word that Darkstar, as he’s commonly known, fell on his own sword before he could be captured. He must have seen no escape from Obara and Swann and sought to spare himself the agony that awaited him back in Sunspear. Dorne will allow no man to harm a princess of the Iron Throne without suffering for it.”

 

Not sparing Sand a second’s thought, Mace asked, “Is that all? Are we done?”

 

“Umm,” Gallard said haltingly. With his left hand, he tapped his archmaester’s ring on the metal head of his cane. Both of them were made of green gold, or _electrum_ as the maesters preferred to call it. One of the few details Sarella included regarding Gallard specified that the electrum link signified an archmaester’s mastery of horticulture.

 

_Another Reachman who thinks himself Garth Greenhand reborn._

 

The Grand Maester composed himself and told the Small Council, “A messenger awaits without, my lords.”

 

“This entire time?”

 

“Yes, my lord. He stated that he would wait until the end of days, if need be.”

 

“Who is he?” asked Ser Hobber.

 

“He is a knight of House Plumm.”

 

That caught Lord Mace by surprise. “A Westerman? What urgent matter could there be in the West?”

 

Cersei looked eager to admit him, but did not put forth any suggestions. Nymeria thought, _Most like she knows these men would refuse on the grounds that it was she who suggested it._

 

Lord Mace asked Gallard, “Why are you so nervous?”

 

“I. . . well, it’s just that. . . mayhaps my lord should meet with Ser Plumm privily. . .”

 

“Tell him to take his message and bugger off,” ordered Lady Nym. She got to her feet. “Tyrell, why keep us all here? I have more important matters than waiting on hedge knights.”

 

“You’ll wait right there, Sand! I haven’t given you my leave to go. Sit down!” he shouted at her. “Or else I’ll _make_ you sit down.”

 

 _Lay a hand on me and you’ll see how well a rose combats venom._ Having stopped Lord Mace from excluding her from hearing the message about the West, Nym obliged and sat down.

 

Tyrell called for the Kingsguard knight guarding the door to admit Plumm.

 

The man who entered was told to leave his warhammer outside. When he approached the table, Nym saw that he held no scroll or parchment. Tarly noticed the same thing and questioned, “Where’s your urgent letter?”

 

“No letter, my lords. . . just a message.”

 

The Hand waved him on.

 

“I am Ser Harwyn Plumm, my lords.” He knuckled his forehead to Cersei Lannister. “I was the master-at-arms of Castle Darry. In a word, the message I bear is this. . . _dragon._ ”

 

Garth Tyrell scoffed, and Randyll Tarly’s eyes narrowed.

 

“Explain your meaning,” ordered Mace.

 

“Do you require an explanation?” he returned, coldly. Rather than illicit further anger from the Small Council, the knight specified, “The Twins, the dual castles of Lord Frey, are no more. My lady yielded Darry, rather than run afoul of a company led by _a dragon._ ”

 

“Who is this _dragon?”_ inquired the Lord of Horn Hill. “Reports say that Jon Connington claims to have a ‘boy-dragon’ at his side. However, the last son of Aerys Targaryen died by the hand of his sister’s horselord. Do you claim some ‘girl-dragon’ leads sellswords or horse-clans in the Riverlands?”

 

“Girl dragon?” Plumm said to himself. If uttered by another man, the knight’s words might have been a private joke. _This Ser Harwyn looks incapable of a smile, let alone laughter._

 

Lord Randyll challenged, “Is that how you answer when you stand before the Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms?”

 

“No, my lord. Your wording. . . was a passing strange. That is all.” He said, “A dragon laid waste to the Freys. A dragon circled above Lady Amerei’s castle walls. _A dragon_ demands that you release Lord Edmure Tully.”

 

Garth the Gross spit out a mouthful of condensed-wine. “Tully? Why would we do that? Let this _dragon_ , whether a wench or a brigand, bring their swords to King’s Landing. No army in Westeros can field as many men as Highgarden commands.”

 

“Did the sellsword commander make some pact with the Blackfish?” supposed Hobber Redwyne.

 

“I don’t understand any of this,” muttered Ser Harys Swyft. “How can a dragon make pacts?”

 

The Reachmen all laughed at the Knight of Cornfield. Gallard politely covered his mouth. Tarly’s smile made for a grim sight. Garth the Gross threw his head back, and his goblet remained upright by only a fly’s breath.

 

“Swyft,” Lord Mace said, “this man obviously doesn’t speak of an _actual_ dragon. Plumm means to say that someone bears a dragon on his banner, or mayhaps, claims a drop of Targaryen blood.” Grinning, he asked the knight, “Which is it, ser?”

 

“Neither, my lord.” Harwyn Plumm’s tone and posture were as stiff as stone. “I told you that a dragon burned the Twins and gave my garrison no choice but to surrender. I mean what I say. _A dragon,_ ” he stressed again. “The creature was unmistakable. A white and scaly she-dragon-”

 

“How does one distinguish a _she-_ dragon?” interrupted Ser Redwyne with amusement in his voice. “Was she wearing a skirt?”

 

“No,” declared Lord Gross. “You look _beneath_ her skirt!”

 

Laughter and jeering erupted again.

 

Randyll Tarly was straight-faced and late with a jest of his own, “Did you find the dragon on its back, with its legs spread and its heels pointed to the ceiling?”

 

Garth Tyrell roared and slapped his knee at the ill-timed and awkward attempt at humor.

 

While Nym did not understand precisely what this knight was trying to convey, she didn’t allow herself the arrogance that Tyrell and his fellows indulged in.

 

_Many a soldier has panicked in battle, mayhaps this man did so during a castle siege. Or else, a spy might have slipped within the curtain walls and poisoned the garrison before the army marched on the castle._

_Greycaps,_ she recalled, _they are well known to give the victim wild hallucinations. But, those mushrooms are better known for their lethality. Tippler’s bane?_ Nymeria wondered. _It is a cousin to the greycap and deathly only if taken with alcohol._ She knew that the blood of a basilisk also caused visions, but a man would fall into a frenzy if poisoned with it. _This man is far from frantic._

She ran her fingers along the neckline of her gown and concluded, _I’ll have to find a way to speak with Tyene. She’d know better what substance could cause this frigid man to see dragons. Discovering what poison it was and where it comes from would do much to hint at who haunts the Riverlands._

 

 _Gods,_ she thought, _I wonder what else Ty learned from conversing with Qyburn in private._

 

Like Nym, Cersei Lannister wasn’t laughing at the Western knight. Nymeria ran her eyes over the woman. _Baratheon colors._ The neck of her finely stitched dress began no more than a finger’s width below her jawline. Her green eyes focused on nothing. She just stared at the center of the table. Her temperament looked like a paradoxical combination of utter hopelessness and furious vehemence.

 

Harwyn Plumm said, “The dragon’s master said that he will order the creature to make a desert of his enemies’ lands. He threatened the Westerlands, my lords.”

 

“With one false Targaryen in the Stormlands,” Hobber Redwyne ribbed Ser Harwyn, “what difference does it make for us whether another takes up a _lair_ in the Riverlands or the West?”

 

Plumm glared at the knight. _“Heed my words.”_

 

“We’ve heard enough of _your words,”_ Lord Tarly thumped.

 

“Do not mistake my warning, my lords.”

 

“Ser Meryn,” called Lord Mace. “Escort this man from the Small Council’s chamber. He may stay in King’s Landing if he so chooses, but he is not to be allowed into the Red Keep again. Understood?”

 

The Kingsguard knight took hold of the collar of Ser Harys’ jerkin. The knight of House Plumm fought against the taller man’s grip.

 

“I’ve brought you the warning I swore to. I fulfilled my oath.” His voice turned into a bestial growl. _“Remember that,_ my lords. _Remember that_ when Ser Whitewolf brings his she-beast to your doorstep. He and I didn’t make any arrangement regarding what I was to do if I encountered a council of witless fools.”

 

“Ser Meryn!” shouted the Hand of the King.

 

Trant slung an arm around Plumm’s neck, but the smaller knight didn’t fight this time. He merely shuffled out of the room.

 

“That’s enough for this morning,” said Mace Tyrell, concluding their meeting.

 

As the men stood up, the Queen Mother sat with a vacant look across her face. Nymeria heard Cersei Lannister whisper a word to herself, echoing Ser Harwyn Plumm, _“Whitewolf. . .”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all for the great feedback to the last chapter!


	60. Sansa - Castle on a Cliff

The arrival of sixteen hundred men from Strongsong marked the last bannermen Queen Sansa, Lady Waynwood, and Ser Templeton were waiting for, and everyone at the foot of the Giant’s Lance readied themselves for the march to Ironoaks on the morrow. To their surprise, however, Lord Belmore’s army had arrived without Lord Belmore.

 

Benedar Belmore was an old, fat lord of dubious allegiance. According to Symond Templeton, the levy Belmore sent represented, at best, two thirds of the soldiers Strongsong could raise. By sending that number, though, no one could claim that he broke the solemn vow he made to his fellow Lords Declarant.

 

Ser Symond explained to Sansa, “Belmore swore that once Bronze Yohn was Robert Arryn’s regent, he would heed Royce’s orders. Though not an oathbreaker, Lord Belmore won’t be risking his own skin in the Riverlands or the North, nor will he risk his sons. He gave orders for his men to serve under the command of Ser Marwyn Belmore, who’s been here at the Gates of the Moon ever since Littlefinger dismissed him as the Eyrie’s captain of the guard, in favor of Lothor Brune. Marwyn’s a good man, but no closer kin to Lord Benedar than a second cousin.”

 

“If I were you, ser,” noted Albar Royce, “I’d rather see Marwyn manning my flank than his lord cousin any day.”

 

Sansa Stark had been planning to honor her allies and their men by riding with them to Ironoaks and seeing them off. With the journey now less than a day away, the prospect of it was beginning to make her nervous. Her closest experience to what she faced on the morrow was travelling from Winterfell to King’s Landing with the royal retinue, so very long ago.

 

She took her leave of Ser Symond and Lord Albar.

 

Sansa gathered Myranda Royce and her half-brother, Jon, to the privacy of her bedroom so she could express the doubts plaguing her.

 

“Even though Lady Waynwood seems pleased by my decision to ride for her castle,” said the young queen, “she hasn’t stopped trying to persuade me to remain here, under guard.”

 

Randa replied, “Sansa, you have no choice but to accompany the soldiery to Ironoaks. Gerold Grafton will be meeting your host there with Gulltown ships, as will Osgood Melcolm of Old Anchor, Gilwood Hunter of Longbow, and Triston Sunderland of the Sisters. They must needs see your face and make their pledges. You must secure their alliance.”

 

“But will she be safe?” Jon asked.

 

“If she isn’t safe when surrounded by the full strength of an army, when else _will_ she be safe? For the lords and the common soldiers, seeing the queen is, mayhaps, her most important act for the coming battles.”

 

Ser Jon looked ready to say something more, but held his tongue.

 

Sansa prodded him to speak. Jon sighed in that somber way of his and stated to Randa, “The lords of the Vale didn’t bend the knee to her, they merely chose to help her, to agree to an alliance.”

 

“It makes no matter. Whom do they fight for, ser, if not for her? They need a figure to rally around. If not Sansa, then we have to send along _Lord_ Sweetrobin.”

 

Though her half-brother seemed unconvinced, she nodded to Randa Royce. “That settles it. I’m going.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa Stark arrived at Ironoaks in the center of the host of Valemen belonging to the Lords Declarant. At her side, Lady Anya Waynwood reined in her mount and allowed Sansa to proceed first. After eight days of mud and sleet, she found herself staring up at the squared-off gateway of the Waynwood castle. She caught sight of Jon and Ghost waiting across the drawbridge for her.

 

He greeted her on horseback, inclining his head and saying, “My queen.”

 

“My knight,” Sansa returned with a smile. “I’m glad to see you looking _none-the-worse_ for riding ahead with the scouting party.”

 

“Few outriders have so keen a nose,” Jon said lightly, throwing a glance at his direwolf. “Nor eyes so sharp.” He looked upwards, and Sansa followed his gaze. Though no creature flew overhead, she understood his meaning.

 

“Careful that you don’t fall into arrogance, ser. It is not a becoming trait.”

 

With a grin and an air of false humility, he answered, “Aye, _my lady sister._ ”

 

 _Good,_ she thought, her heart full of relief. _He’s not still mad at me for not accepting him as a knight of my Kingsguard._ Sansa watched him turn his red-brown palfrey and followed.

 

_It’s better this way, Jon. For you most of all._

 

* * *

 

The evening meal at Ironoaks was a formal affair. The large chamber for feasts took up most of the second floor of the primary holdfast within Ironoaks. It was a square keep and the shape of the hall reflected that. The kitchens and storehouse were inside the feasting hall, in a walled off quarter of the chamber. This gave the rest of the hall the shape of a chevron, which channeled all of the attention towards the honored table on a raised dais, in the far corner.

 

Anya Waynwood stood up even before her steward introduced Sansa.

 

“Her Grace, Sansa Stark,” thundered the short man in green and thread of gold. “Queen of the North and the Trident. Most honored friend of the Vale.”

 

The weight of hearing her own introduction surprised the girl from Winterfell. She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back an anxious smile. _Mayhaps this does make for a queenly image,_ she reflected. _Me in a long, light grey gown - dyed and tailored from one of Lady Lysa’s - with a pure white direwolf on one side, and my black-cloaked, black-haired swordsman on the other._

 

 _The steward didn’t announce Jon_ , she thought, realizing that no ceremony would be spared for her bastard brother, even if he was a knight.

 

She took the seat Lady Anya offered her. Jon found a place further down, but still at her table. Sansa Stark breathed a sigh of relief that Lady Waynwood did not attempt to seat him below the salt. Ghost began to follow after Jon, but her half-brother nodded back towards Sansa. The wolf turned in place, then nestled against the wall behind her chair.

 

When the visiting queen sat, so did Lady Waynwood and the rest of the more than two hundred attending the feast. The gathering was comprised of lords, township masters, and highborn knights. The young Stark woman glanced around her table for familiar faces. Besides those who’d ridden with her from below the Eyrie, Sansa also recognized Lord Corbray and Lord Redfort.

 

_From Petyr’s trial. From his execution. . ._

 

After Sansa acknowledged the lords she knew, Lady Anya began to introduce the others. She inclined her head to a man who was approaching sixty namedays and wearing a green cloak over a blue doublet. “I present Lord Triston Sunderland of the Three Sisters.”

 

“At his left,” continued Waynwood, “are his three lords bannermen: Lord Godric Borrell of Sweetsister, Lord Rolland Longthorpe of Longsister, and Lord Alesandor Torrent of Littlesister.”

 

The men each bowed their heads in turn.

 

Lady Anya presented the eldest and the youngest of her three sons, Morton and Wallace Waynwood. Lastly, she pointed out Lord Gerold Grafton.

 

The table was silent for a moment, before Sansa realized that it fell to her to begin their meal.

 

“My lords, my lady, and good knights, I am grateful for your attendance, your friendship, and your courage. We have much we’ll need to talk over. For the now, let’s enjoy our host’s feast. Afterward, we can discuss the affairs of the Vale and the North. Yes?”

 

They echoed a chorus of “Yes, Your Grace,” and Ser Morton Waynwood signaled for the first course.

 

With the castle’s proximity to a lake and the sea, Sansa expected a fare of fish or crabs. However, Lady Waynwood’s servants brought out a first platter of brown breads topped with thin cuts of smoked venison. The second and third dishes, respectively, were a medley of elk chunks with vegetables and then seared willow-grouse. Each was presented first to Queen Sansa. She asked for a small portion of them, before sending most of the first helpings to others.

 

“My lady,” she said, determined to make courteous conversation. “I would’ve thought to find dishes from the sea, here in Ironoaks. I’m surprised to taste such delicious fare caught from the woodlands.”

 

Lady Anya offered her thanks.

 

Ser Morton said, “Though we are close to the sea, Your Grace, House Waynwood takes more of its character from the surrounding, cliff-top forests.

 

“As you might or might not know,” he continued, “our House did not begin in the Vale.”

 

Unfamiliar with the tale, Sansa shook her head.

 

Lady Anya took over for her son. “A century after the Andals came to Westeros, House Wayn built its modest holdfast in the Riverlands. Several generations later, a younger son sought out fortune and glory in the wars of the Vale.”

 

Morton added, “Houses Redfort and Royce, both founded by clan-lords of the First Men, were still at odds with their Andal neighbors and joined forces against a Lord Melcolm of Old Anchor.”

 

“A Lord Melcolm of _Old Oaks_ , it was,” corrected Lady Anya. “Though, he was aided by his brother in Old Anchor and other kinsmen.”

 

Her son nodded in agreement. “Our forbearer found patronage in service to the Redforts. In the battle for Old Oaks, he was the first to storm the oaken motte. He faced the Brothers Melcolm in successive bouts of single combat and slew them both. For his bravery, Royce and Redfort agreed to award him Old Oaks and the surrounding lands. House Melcolm, though, retained Old Anchor.”

 

“Which is the current Lord Melcolm’s seat,” suggested Sansa.

 

“Yes,” Morton confirmed. “Over the generations the Wayns of the Wood, as we were once called, became House Waynwood. Our ancestors worked for many years to replace the ruined, wooden holdfast of _Old Oaks_ with our stone castle, _Ironoaks._ Once completed, the _Wayns of the Wood_ surpassed the Riverlands’ Wayns in station and power.”

 

Lady Waynwood gave her son a stern look for what one might consider a brazen comment.

 

Sansa supposed, “That sounds like a story best spoken out of the hearing of Lord Melcolm. Is he still to join us?”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Anya. “Lord Osgood Melcolm should arrive in a few days’ time, as will Lord Hunter. Our army will depart for Castle Darry when they do.”

 

The rest of the meal passed with mundane courtesy and no mention of the upcoming campaign. Lord Redfort was the last to finish eating. Once the servants cleared away the pile of bones and bread crusts on Redfort’s plate, Stark asked, “If everyone is finished, mayhaps we should retire to your solar, Lady Waynwood, so we can talk about our plans.”

 

“Your Grace,” replied the Lady of Ironoaks, “if I might offer my advice, I believe it prudent to wait for Lords Melcolm and Hunter to arrive before we proceed into any material discussions.”

 

Symond Templeton smirked. “Hunter won’t hold it against you, but Osgood’s a prickly old cod, Queen Sansa. Prone to tantrums when he feels slighted.”

 

Ser Morton chuckled at the older knight’s description and added, “Coming to Ironoaks isn’t like to make him any less irritable, my lady.”

 

Gerold Grafton leaned forward over the table and said, “Say what you like about Osgood Melcolm, it’s Young Lord Hunter who concerns me. _I don’t trust the man._ Mayhaps it was, indeed, one of his brothers who murdered their father, but the stench of kinslaying festers in Longbow Hall all the same.”

 

The whole of the Vale had heard that tale. Lord Gilwood Hunter’s younger brothers had been accusing him of murdering their father to gain control of the family lordship. They had, however, failed to recognize that as the new lord, it fell to Gilwood to dispense justice on Hunter lands. He hanged the both of them, insisting that he knew one of his brothers was the murderer and kinslayer, and better to execute them both than to chance allowing his father’s killer to live.

 

Anya Waynwood narrowed her eyes at Lord Grafton. But after a breath, her face relaxed and she offered, “Allow me to call for the minstrel in my service. His songs should make for entertaining diversions, Your Grace.”

 

“A fine idea, my lady,” replied Sansa, relieved by the change in course and excited by the prospect. “Yes, let us do just that!”

 

* * *

 

The next day brought Sansa more introductions and names than she could hope to remember. Hundreds of knights bowed their heads to her, pledging bravery and friendship.

 

Though they were waiting for the arrival of ships from Old Anchor and Longbow Hall before starting any weighty talks, Waynwood and her son offered to host Sansa and the Vale lords in the private meeting room for a light hearted, mid-day meal.

 

She liked the idea and immediately agreed. When the lords began to gather together, she saw that their knights and retainers didn’t move to follow.

 

Though the Valemen had been courteous enough to allow Sansa’s bastard brother to feast with them the night before, she doubted that they would look fondly on his attendance in this private audience.

 

As she walked past him, Jon stood to follow her.

 

“Ser, would you not prefer to see more of the castle?”

 

He looked confused. “Sansa?”

 

“I fear that I might be cooped up for the remainder of the day, but I don’t think I should force you to do the same.”

 

“As you say. . . ” He glanced sideways at the others nearby, then ambled away with Ghost trailing after him.

 

* * *

 

On the evening Lord Osgood Melcolm’s fleet arrived from Old Anchor, he insisted that he needed a night’s sleep in a real bed before his mind would be clear enough to carry on anything as important as a war council. Sansa Stark and Anya Waynwood granted him and his men their respite.

 

The next morning, a boy with a green wave on his tunic found Queen Sansa sitting with Ser Jon in the feasting hall. The page said Lord Melcolm and Lady Waynwood were convening a meeting. Sansa agreed to be along in a minute. The boy bowed, then paced a modest distance away.

 

“Good of him to wait for you,” said Jon.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“If not for him, you would have no suitable escort.”

 

“Of course he would wait for me,” she responded. “I wouldn’t know where to go if the page didn’t wait.”

 

Jon shook his head. “Never mind.”

 

“No,” she told him. “What was that supposed to mean?”

 

“ _Never you mind._ Ghost, with Sansa.”

 

The direwolf stood up from his place by the wall. He bent low, stretching his front legs. A brief shake ran from his head, over his fur, and finished with a flick of his tail.

 

Jon stopped sharpening his dagger. “I’m going to find a place for Viserion to spend tonight. With so many horses just arrived, I have to find somewhere else for her. So if you need to find me, I’ll be _somewhere._ ”

 

Puzzled, Sansa simply followed the page-boy.

 

The chambers Lady Waynwood chose for the gathering would have been a solar in most any other castle, but Ironoaks was a fortress with few windows and the room bore none.

 

Sansa recognized that the debate about to begin would be different from the chats she’d been having since she arrived at Ironoaks. She pushed down her anxiousness and held her chin high.

 

The lords crowded in. The lot of them represented the Three Sisters, Old Anchor, the Redfort, Gulltown, Heart’s Home, Ninestars, Strongsong, and of course Ironoaks. Servants lit the sconces along the walls, poured a tart vintage of wine native to the Vale, and left the lords to their private talks.

 

“It is my honor to host this meeting for Queen Sansa,” began Lady Waynwood. “We have much to discuss.”

 

Waynwood then detailed their victories at Riverrun, the Twins, and Castle Darry. She outlined the benefits of uniting Sansa’s goals with their own. The stately woman emphasized, “Queen Cersei Lannister needed less than a year to bankrupt the realm, heedless of what is commonly said of her kin and their debts. Her bastards have no claim to the Iron Throne and even less to dominion over the Vale.”

 

 _Some of these men,_ Sansa reminded herself, _already swore to follow Bronze Yohn as they would their liege._

 

The young queen attempted to sound regal as she stated, “As regent for Lord Robert Arryn, Lord Royce chose to take up arms and join with me. I now ask the rest of you, my lords, to seal our alliance with oaths, within the hearing of men and gods.”

 

“Words are wind, better were it sealed with something stronger.”

 

Sansa Stark didn’t understand what Lord Grafton meant.

 

“A marriage?” questioned Ser Symond.

 

“Why not?”

 

Triston Sunderland asked, “To whom, Gerold?”

 

Osgood Melcolm thumped his pewter mug onto a side-table, and his fellows took notice. “Cut short this farce, my lords. The girl is a savage. As well she was from Asshai-by-the-Shadow, for how foreign her ways are to ours.”

 

“My lord?” probed Lady Waynwood.

 

“Save your _my lords_ for someone else,” he spat. “Knights of the Faith long ago chased the heathen First Men from the Vale, sparing only those who acquiesced to the ways of godly men. The outskirts of our lands have long been plagued by barbarous clansmen, only a fool would allow their sister-queen into our halls.”

 

Templeton grimaced in disgust. “There’s not a noble House in the realm without a drop of First Men’s blood.”

 

 _“A drop_ is more than any of us should have, may the Mother hear me. But this child. . . we’d need a cask to contain all the heathen blood we could leech out of her.”

 

Shocked by all this, Sansa couldn’t find her voice.

 

“This Stark-girl will drag us back a thousand years, to senseless bloodshed and savagery. Tell me I’m wrong, my lords. I dare each of you, find fault in my words.”

 

The Knight of Ninestars clenched his fists. “I say you’re wrong, Osgood Melcolm. I do.”

 

“And the rest of you?”

 

Anya Waynwood asked, “What is your goal, my lord? From where does this protest come?”

 

The Lord of Old Anchor had to think for a minute. Sansa tried to gather her own thoughts, but before she knew what to say, Lord Osgood stated, “I want the lot of you to do what you know in your hearts to be right: Renounce this Northman’s daughter. Lend her a horse and send her off, I tell you. ‘Tis more than she rightly deserves.

 

“Even now that wolf, a cruel beast and an ill-omen, hovers about her. If that weren’t enough. . .” He began rifling through a rucksack then withdrew a creased bit of parchment. “This letter, my lords, came to me on the morning before I departed my shores. It was meant for the Stark girl, before a _bad_ gale and _good_ fortune delivered it to my rookery.”

 

The letter had been torn open. Its distinct marking showed a circle of black wax with a dollop of red in the middle.

 

“Black _and_ red?” wondered Lord Sunderland. “Who seals his letters in both colors?”

 

 _I received a seal just like it not so long ago, back at the Gates of the Moon._ Sansa questioned, “Why did you open it, Lord Melcolm, if it bears my name?”

 

He insisted, “It came to me in this condition.”

 

She doubted his word.

 

“What does it say?” asked Symond Templeton.

 

“Here,” replied Melcolm. He pointed the letter at Sansa. “Pass this parchment to _Her Grace_. Let her be condemned by her own tongue.”

 

As the letter exchanged hands half-way around the chamber, each person inspected the seal.

 

Ser Marwyn Belmore wondered, “A three-fingered claw?”

 

“Far worse,” answered Osgood Melcolm.

 

The message reached her, and Sansa began to read it aloud:

 

_“Your Grace, Queen Sansa Stark of Winterfell,_

_I beseech you to consider this letter, in full, before making any determination regarding my offer._

_I, Prince Aegon Targaryen, am the true heir to the Iron Throne. I began my quest in the Stormlands and the region’s capitol is now mine. From here, my lady, I shall spread my domain to take the whole of the Stormlands as my first kingdom. My quest will not end until I have united all Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, as my ancestors once did._

_My agents learned that you now rule the Vale of Arryn. Do not be alarmed, as I do not wish to meet your lords in the field, if we can avoid that._

_I invite you to swear fealty to the rightful heir of the line of Aegon the Conqueror. Add your host to mine. I will pardon any Stark bannerman you would have me pardon. I would return the North to you and your brother._

_The. . .”_

 

Sansa noticed that the ink bled on the first word of the next section, as if the writer held the quill in place for too long.

 

_“. . . roses will not lay down their thorns whilst Mace Tyrell sees a chance for power. Only a dragon will dissuade the prideful lord. He favored the dragon over the usurper once. With my claim, he shall again. Together, we will right all the wrongs that came to pass during the Usurper’s Rebellion and the War of the False Kings. . .”_

After another blot of ink, the message continued.

_“. . . Do not send word to Storm’s End by raven, ship, or rider. The way is guarded by men who are not yet our allies. If you mean to join my cause, you and your brother should arrive in person. If you mean to deny me, arrive in person nonetheless - that I might have the chance to further explain. Some truths cannot be entrusted to parchment.”_

 

Sansa looked up from the message and saw Lord Melcolm looming above her.

 

“What deceit is in store for the Vale?!” He stole the letter from her grasp and waved it at her. “What treachery are you going to bring down upon us?”

 

“No treachery, my lord.”

 

“How can you deny what we’ve all just heard? Did my ears deceive me?” Osgood glared down at her. “Anya Waynwood said your plans are to free the riverlords, then to take back the North. Here’s proof to the contrary.”

 

“No, my lord,” she pleaded with him. “I mean, _yes!_ What Lady Waynwood told you is all I plan to do.”

 

 _“Baw,_ I say! Your scheme is to make subjects of the lords of the Vale, not allies. With winter upon us, you would get us embroiled in a pretender-Targaryen’s pointless war! You’d have our children starve and our smallfolk freeze. Would that your traitor father had taught you better. I’ll see you in chains for your schemes! Now that the other lords know the truth of your plots, they’ll help me to drag you to the foot of the Iron Throne. We’ll reap the fruits of staying true to King Tommen.”

 

She shuddered at the thought of being forced back into the Red Keep. “It’s not like the letter makes it sound,” she insisted.

 

“Oh, we’ll be rewarded for handing you over to them! Oh, yes! All that is left for us to decide is whether to give you to the Throne whole. . . or to make a gift of your head. Would that-”

 

Melcolm stopped dead and Sansa shot back in her seat - the direwolf had leapt between them with his hackles raised.

 

“Ghost!” she shouted. Sansa clutched him by his fur and tried to pull him away. The wolf was too enraged and too powerful. He raised his lip, wrinkling his muzzle and displaying his fangs.

 

Sansa Stark froze for a moment, paralyzed by uncertainty. She feared more for Ghost than the man he might maul. _If he bites a lord, they’ll make me. . ._

 

The door shot open and slammed against the wall.

 

“You can’t go in!”

 

Sansa saw her brother charging into the room. The page-boy gripped Jon’s sleeve, but he shrugged him off effortlessly. Ser Jon only pulled up when he was nose-to-nose with Osgood Melcolm.

 

“Jon,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

 

“Boy, what are you-”

 

 _“Back away,”_ Jon growled. “See what happens if you don’t, _m’lord._ See what happens if you try to intimate her again.”

 

Sansa let go of Ghost and went to Jon’s side. “It’s nothing,” she told him. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

 

“It’s not fine. A highborn lord should know better. You criticize her honor, and then you act like this? _You_ should know better.”

 

Melcolm’s eyes darkened. “So says some bastard who’s been spying on us!”

 

The fight seemed to desert Jon then, and he backed away.

 

“Stop this lunacy,” demanded Lady Waynwood. “You are guests in _my_ home. At accordingly!”

 

His tongue unfrozen, Symond called out, “Melcolm, you temperamental fool. The raven brought you old news.”

 

_“Old news?”_

 

The Knight of Ninestars revealed that a similar message had arrived at the Gates of the Moon.

 

“Why wasn’t I told?” questioned Melcolm.

 

“Why would you be?” Templeton returned with disdain. “Waynwood and I read it. Stark even wrote of it to Bronze Yohn.”

 

 _“Bah!_ You should’ve told me!”

 

Sansa knew she had to speak, though she didn’t know what she meant to say. “Lord Melcolm? You called me a ‘ _heathen’_ , and yet, you never asked me about which gods I pray to. I keep the Seven, as my lady mother did and as I learned from my septa. And. . . and you talk about these _schemes of mine?_ Ask me whatever you like, my lord, I’ll answer you with honesty.”

 

“What about your _Targaryen?_ Will you even _try_ to deny an involvement with the pretender-dragon?”

 

She stifled a smirk. “I know of only one dragon, my lord. Mayhaps you’ve seen it? Scales like snow, golden eyes, breath of fire?”

 

Standing in the center of the room, Osgood slowly turned around, glaring at the lords encircling him. “Well? Do none of you have the stones to condemn this girl as I have?”

 

When no one offered words of support, he stormed out.

 

“Should I bring him back?” asked Morton Waynwood. Lady Anya shook her head, and Sansa was greatly relieved.

 

“Where were we?” offered up Lord Redfort, as if the previous eruption hadn’t happened.

 

Symond Templeton gestured for Sansa to re-take her seat. Jon took up a place behind her, leaning against the wall, and Ghost laid down beside him. The Knight of Ninestars then answered Redfort, saying that they were about to seal their alliance with oaths.

 

“Yes,” replied Horton Redfort. “Of course. . . Are we still to make those promises?”

 

Sansa Stark looked around, fretting that their fragile unity was now fractured. She summoned her courage and asked, “What do you say, my lords? Are we still to join together?”

 

Cutting through the others’ silence, Lady Waynwood responded, “As I invited each of you here, I believe it my duty to disclose my opinion first. With respect to Lord Melcolm, I believe his concerns misguided. No matter your discomfort about one letter or the posturing of Her Grace’s wolf, do Lord Melcolm’s words erase the sins of the Freys and Boltons? Are they no longer oathbreakers? Are Cersei Lannister’s ill-begotten children any more fit for the Iron Throne than they were yesterday? Have the crown’s crippling debts to the Iron Bank and other money-lenders declined since we sat down? Tempers aside, nothing impactful has changed.” She got to her feet, flattened her dress, and bowed before Sansa. “Your Grace, I pledge the alliance and friendship of House Waynwood to your cause and to the independence of the Vale. I shall endeavor to take up arms against our common enemies.”

 

“As does House Templeton,” offered Ser Symond. “Most of us pledged our support for this campaign before it began. We did so when we came together as the Lord Declarant: Lady Waynwood and I, Redfort, Ser Marwyn’s cousin Lord Belmore, and Lord Hunter - our member not yet arrived. I ask Lord Grafton, Lord Sunderland, and his three lords bannermen,” the knight said, pausing to look each of them in the eye. “Bronze Yohn awaits our swords in the Riverlands. Will any of you abandon him? I hereby pledge the loyalty of Ninestars to the Vale’s alliance with the Queen of the North until the day her kingdom is restored, or my liege orders me to withdraw. What say you all?”

 

The rest of the Valemen made less stringent promises, but Sansa Stark was grateful to hear each of them.

 

Once they were finished, Triston Sunderland stated, “Regarding the raven you sent, Your Grace, I would be honored to take up a post as your Master of Ships.”

 

Lord Gerold Grafton rocked himself out of his chair and onto his feet. His face was lined and his back was curved. He crossed the solar without a word and picked up a bundle of blankets from on top of an oak trunk. Grafton bunched them onto the seat of his chair, before sitting back down.

 

“If this is not premature,” said Lord Gerold, now settled. “I might begin my duties, Your Grace, as your new Master of Whispers.”

 

Sansa lent her attention to Grafton. “You have my leave.”

 

“Talk in Gulltown says Loras Tyrell took Dragonstone. Word is, he was maimed in the storming of the castle.”

 

“Maimed?” _The Knight of Flowers, maimed?_

 

“Aye, my lady. They say the young man remains on Dragonstone, recovering. Lord Redwyne pulled anchor as soon as the battle was over, not caring a fig for his liege lord’s son.” He added, “To the last of that, I can vouch for the ships leaving. That much is certain.”

 

Triston Sunderland asked, “Where are the ships now?”

 

“No more than five galleys,” Grafton stated, holding up fingers to match the count, “are docked at Dragonstone. Redwyne sent another five to Storm’s End, before continuing southward with the bulk of the Reach’s fleet. Last I heard, he was as far as Tarth, though he could’ve gone anywhere from there.”

 

“Five ships to Storm’s End?” Ser Morton questioned.

 

Lady Waynwood suggested, “Now seems appropriate to discuss the letter from there, the one that so displeased Lord Osgood.”

 

“What of the claim that _Prince Aegon Targaryen_ has returned with his skull intact?” mused Marwyn Belmore. “What of Storm’s End and his intention to press further into Westeros?”

 

“Could there be any truth to it?”

 

Sansa didn’t know.

 

“Regardless,” Lord Grafton huffed, “we’ll not be able to meet with whomever this _prince_ might really be. Storm’s End will be closed to us.”

 

“By only five ships?” wondered Templeton. “Mayhaps that would be enough to blockade the castle by water, but surely five crews won’t be able to encircle the whole castle by land.”

 

Grafton elaborated, “Mace Tyrell’s own household guard went to the docks in King’s Landing. With Paxter Redwyne gone and the Royal ships all destroyed or stolen, Tyrell was looking for merchants and sellsails. Really, his men searched for anyone with a hull to take the army to Storm’s End. ‘Five-and-sixty thousand soldiers, along with squires, servants, and retainers.’”

 

Lord Gerold grinned a brown smile and stressed, _“Thirty thousand horses,_ my lords, if you can believe that. When some of the very same merchants arrived in Gulltown weeks later, they laughed in their cups at the _Lord Flower._ They japed about the silver stags Highgarden men handed out, before they realized that all the boats putting in on the Blackwater would sink if _half_ of Tyrell’s host boarded them. Never mind the horses.”

 

“Sixty-five thousand?” Ser Symond checked. “Were the traders certain?”

 

“As certain as they can be.”

 

 _Lord Tyrell could have marched to Storm’s End by now,_ thought Sansa. _What of Brynden Blackfish’s plan to make an ally of him?_

 

“Your Grace,” offered Lady Anya. “Mayhaps, we should send an emissary. One to meet with Lord Tyrell and discover more about this _Aegon Targaryen.”_

 

“I submit my name for the task,” Morton Waynwood volunteered.

 

“I would prefer to go myself,” replied Sansa.

 

“Let Ser Morton go,” counseled Symond Templeton. “What seems most reliable about whoever took Storm’s End is that he surrounds himself with sellswords. It’d be one matter to put your trust in Renly Baratheon, would that he still held the castle. It’s quite a different one to trust mercenaries. The Golden Company might be the most trustworthy of sellswords, but that’s like choosing which breed of blister beetle you’d most like to burrow into your trousers.”

 

They agreed to give Morton both the honor and the responsibility of traveling to Storm’s End. He acknowledged that he would hear whatever offer the sellswords and their claimant wished to make.

 

Waynwood pledged, “I promise, Your Grace and my lords, I’ll refrain from agreeing to anything without your consent.”

 

“Be careful,” warned Templeton. “Since the realm fell into war, betrayal has spread like a forest fire. Be on your guard, Ser Morton, and do not put your trust in anyone.”

 

Lord Redfort suggested, “If Ser Morton is to head south - towards Mace Tyrell’s sixty-five thousand swords, should the rest of us not venture in the opposite direction?”

 

“Hmm, obvious yet sensible,” Lord Borrell of Sweetsister remarked with a chuckle. “It would take quite the commander to overtake that number with our forces. What is our final count?”

 

“Eighteen thousand and seven hundred, as of all who’ve arrived,” stated Lady Waynwood. “Mayhaps three thousand more when Lord Hunter joins us.”

 

“Mayhaps we should table this discussion until Hunter reaches Ironoaks,” Lord Lyonel Corbray mentioned, his first contribution to their war council.

 

Horton Redfort sighed. He rubbed his brow and supplied, “It was tiresome waiting for Osgood Melcolm to arrive. Now that he’s here, it seems foolish to detail the forthcoming campaign without him.”

 

Ser Symond scoffed at the suggestion.

 

Godric Borrell said, “Lord Melcolm is welcome to join us. Why should we indulge the man’s hysterics?”

 

“Well said,” Templeton agreed.

 

He and Lady Waynwood then began to recount all that they’d agree upon during Sansa’s council meeting back at the Gates of the Moon. _Meeting up with Lord Royce at Castle Darry. Founding for Sansa a Kingsguard, like those of the Arryn Kings of old. Distributing food to the Riverlands. Demanding Harrenhal from Ser Bonifer Hasty. Following Greatjon Umber on a march first to White Harbor then onward to Winterfell._

 

Sansa had scrutinized these topics over and again so many times that she could’ve mouthed Symond Templeton’s words as he was saying them.

 

“Ser,” spoke Morton, “as you and my lady mother requested, I sent forth traders to each of the major ports among the Free Cities. It’s not been long enough for word back, but it’d be a fair guess that they’ll find merchants eager to exchange yams and rice for the silver Lord Yohn took from the Twins.”

 

“Once Lord Hunter joins his fleet to ours,” began Lord Sunderland, furrowing the loose skin of his brow, “our combined host shall meet Yohn Royce in the Riverlands. Who then will remain to defend the Vale, should the Iron Throne decide to send its Reachmen?”

 

“It’s a small risk, my lord,” Sansa told him. “The Bloody Gate and the snow make the High Road impossible to march.”

 

“The Eyrie is mayhaps inaccessible,” allowed Sunderland, “but not all of us will be leaving our families or our wealth at the Gates of the Moon.”

 

Templeton said, “Edmund Waxley is well-placed to meet any attempt to march an army out of the Crownlands and along our coastline. Lord Lynderly stands at the ready with his soldiers and ships to reinforce any castle that sends for aid.”

 

“That presupposes that each of them command enough men to make a difference, should Mace Tyrell sail to the shores of the Vale.”

 

“Lord Triston,” responded Symond, “no strategy is without risks. But as Grafton said, the Reach’s fleet bends its oars for home. They’ll not chase the ironmen from their waters in a day. For the coming months, Tyrell and his bannermen will have no means to sail around the Bloody Gate or the Mountains of the Moon, which means the heart of the Vale, the coastal castles, and especially your islands are safe from invasion.”

 

Triston Sunderland stated his provisional agreement to their strategy, but then voiced another concern. “Whether we choose to call her _our queen_ or merely _our ally,_ if Lady Sansa is captured or killed our cause would go poorly. Worse still if the young Lord Arryn is too.”

 

“My lord?”

 

“Lady Waynwood made mention of a Kingsguard, of sorts, for Lady Stark. Whom has she chosen thus far?”

 

Sansa tried to sense Jon’s reaction without looking back at him.

 

“Your Grace?” prodded Anya Waynwood.

 

“Yes,” Queen Sansa answered after several seconds. “Yes, Lord Sunderland. . . So far, I have heard the names of a few knights, but haven’t, right now, chosen anyone.”

 

“Just like appointing a lord to your Small Council or taking his son to ward,” began Symond Templeton, “naming a lord’s kinsman to your Honorguard will help to ensure that he stays true to our alliance. Ser Mychel Redfort and Ser Lucas Corbray are two of the best swordsmen the Vale boasts.” He leaned back in his seat and smirked at his own bluntness.

 

While Lord Lyonel extended his thanks for the compliment of his younger half-brother, Lord Redfort tightened his mouth at the implied insult.

 

_Mya might never forgive me for this._

 

“My lord?” Sansa addressed to Horton Redfort. “I’ve heard of your son’s skill, as well as his gallant nature. He is wed to Ysilla Royce, is he not? I think it might make for a noble gesture toward you and Lord Yohn if I take your son, who’s also his good-son, into my _Honorguard,_ as Ser Symond called it. All the better that Ser Mychel is deserving of it too.”

 

The tension eased from Lord Horton’s face. “Your Grace’s decision to follow the traditions and laws of the Arryn Kings of Mountain and Vale, I hold that in high esteem. With Ser Mychel joining your guard, my good-daughter will then become a lady in your court, sworn in her loyalty to you. I’ll send a raven to my heir, Ser Jasper, telling him to send his brother and good-sister to meet you. . .”

 

“Back at the Gates of the Moon,” Sansa answered. _Ysilla Royce too? Now Mya Stone is sure to wring my neck._ “No need for Ser Mychel and Lady Ysilla to come to Ironoaks, then retrace their steps on the route back to the Gates. Saving them from leagues of mud and snow is the least I can offer your son in return for his promise to save me from any assassins, my lord.”

 

Sansa silently reminded herself to make certain that Mychel Redfort wished to join her guard, rather than accept his father’s answer out of hand.

 

“And what of Ser Lucas?” Symond Templeton asked Lord Corbray.

 

“He’s here - somewhere in the castle, ser. But, I’ll let him make his own determination.”

 

“Very good,” said Sansa.

 

“Ser Kyle Condon.”

 

She saw the eyes of her war council turn their attention behind her. Sansa looked over her shoulder and heard Jon say, “He was Lord Cerwyn’s strong right arm. Now that his liege lord and his liege’s son are dead, I believe Ser Kyle would accept the posting, should you offer it. I, for one, think that you would do well to offer him a place. Perhaps even as the Lord Commander, or sergeant as you called it.”

 

“Serjeant-at-mace, Ser Jon.”

 

She trusted her half-brother’s opinion. Added to that, Sansa still felt guilty for rejecting him as a member of her guard, no matter how sensible the choice was. “Very well. Ser Kyle Condon’s with Lord Royce, isn’t he?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Then, very well. When you arrive at Darry, please extend to him the offer of a silvery cloak.” She grinned inwardly. _Silver for my guard sounds a little better than grey. . . and far better than white._ “Should Ser Condon accept, he can take up his duty on the battlefield.”

 

Lady Waynwood and others looked skeptical, but Sansa was glad to hear no argument. With three knights of her _Honorguard_ and the broad strategy for the war campaign decided upon, she asked if they were settled until Lord Hunter arrived and the army could leave for the Riverlands.

 

The Knight of Ninestars said, “Before we retire for the day - _much less carry out a war  -_ someone must needs speak to Osgood.”

 

Lord Borrell japed, “We might draw lots for it.”

 

Sunderland and Grafton both insisted that they were poor choices for the task. Reluctantly, Lady Waynwood volunteered to talk to him.

 

“Very good,” replied Ser Symond, smirking and standing up. “And if on the morrow my lady is short a tongue, we shall save her the trouble of spelling out the culprit’s name.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise - hand on my heart, by the old and the new - this chapter will read much, much better when you look back at it, like five or six chapter from now. Seriously, with a little luck, even the boring stuff will seem revelatory in hindsight. _*Twirls mustache, adjusts black top-hat*_ I’m super excited to write what’ll come out of this mostly-mundane chapter.


	61. Bronze Yohn - Seeding for Spring

Yohn Royce looked out from the walls of Castle Darry. There was a wintry bite to the air that day, but the wind was calm and the sun shown clear. Though the small castle had changed kingdoms with his arrival, Lord Royce watched the people within it go about their duties with little regard for the machinations of kings and queens.

 

“Boy! Over here.”

 

Royce nodded to his squire, who stepped along the wallwalk to refill Jon Umber’s mug of morning wine.

 

“That’ll be all for now,” he told the boy from Coldwater Burn.

 

Lord Umber snatched away the flagon, before the squire could leave with it.

 

_The Seven forbid, you might be without another cup, my lord._

 

The Greatjon remarked, “I like it up here, Royce. Peaceful atop the walls.”

 

“Yes, my lord. It often is.”

 

“And this spares me any more questions on _dragons,”_ Umber said with a blustery chuckle.

 

Bronze Yohn grinned. “Oh?”

 

“Like squirrels gnawing on chestnuts, your Valemen chatter on,” Greatjon huffed. “Day and night, supping and breaking my fast, since the instant Ned’s boy left the castle.”

 

“I believe they were too anxious to press Ser Jon directly about the dragon. Besides, it’s only natural the men are curious about a creature long thought vanished from the world.”

 

“Mayhaps,” said Umber, pausing for a gulp. “Bugger me with a spear, I don’t know why they’d think I know anymore of the beast than they.”

 

“Who can say,” replied Yohn, as he pursed his lips to hide his smile. When he had reached the end of his own patience for questions about Jon’s dragon, Royce began advising his men to ask Lord Umber.

 

“My lord,” he posed, “is there nothing you can think of to explain it? No old magic or Northern spells or anything of the like?”

 

“No, Royce. Nothing. How many stories have _you_ heard linking the North _and_ dragons?”

 

“What of the Land Beyond the Wall?” Yohn wondered. “Giants and wargs, mammoths, Children of the Forest, ice-spiders, _direwolves,_ with creatures such as those, why not also dragons?”

 

Umber gave no answer.

 

Royce said, “You should’ve seen Ser Jon with that direwolf. He rarely needed more than a glance to get the animal to obey.”

 

“The boy’s a warg,” Greatjon stated, “that much should be obvious. We behead our share of wildling raiders, back at Last Hearth. I miss doing so, to tell it true. Wargs is no common raiders, Royce. You must needs take down the wolf or dog first. The beast will fight to its death for the master.”

 

“So you’ve seen such magic before?”

 

“A man wanders into your lands and tells the smallfolk he’s a warg, chances are a hundredfold that he’s just got himself a trained up half-dog, half-wolf mutt.”

 

“It’s all a fable? How, then, do you explain Ser Jon?”

 

Umber shook his head. “No,” he said, “wargs is real enough. Of the wildlings I killed, only two I believe had the _black tongue._ I took no chances with them. Someone like that, who knows what he’ll do from inside the heart of an animal? If a man has enough wildling blood to speak to wolves, he’s got in him enough wildling blood for my grandfather’s gruesome ol’ killing-axe.”

 

“I am uneasy about all this, Lord Umber.”

 

“Think of the alternative, Yohn. A masterless dog is nothing to fear. And even in the Riverlands, we have no lack for wild wolves. But a dragon needs a master, one who can bring it to heel with only a word - or not even one. A masterless dragon. . . _that_ is a thing to fret over. Pluck a bowstring and you can be rid of a warg’s mutt. I cannot say the same for a dragonrider’s mount.”

 

“So Jon’s direwolf and the dragon are bound to him in the same vein? Lord Umber, did the two wargs you encountered each command a wolf and one other type of creature?”

 

“No,” he replied. “One had a wolf, the other a dog.”

 

Bronze Yohn was hoping to hear something more definitive. Greatjon appeared almost casual about all this. _The better I come to know this lord of the North, the stranger he seems._ “Will Northmen call for Ser Jon’s head? I mean, if they believe him a, a _warg?”_

 

Lord Umber scoffed. “He’s Ned Stark’s bastard.” Yohn asked him what he meant, and the Greatjon said, “You’re not going to kill your liege’s son just because you suspect him a warg. Were he a hatmaker’s bastard. . . that’d be different. But instead, he is a Stark’s bastard.”

 

“What of Ser Jon’s mother? Might she’ve been a wildling? Some woods witch from beyond the Wall? Jon never mentioned her to me.”

 

“Nor did his lord father ever speak her name to me.”

 

Royce wondered, “Is it only the descendants of wildlings who are wargs?”

 

“Every Northman’s heard tell of forest magic in the blood of every noble House what can trace its roots back to the First Men. But, I haven’t known any highborn to be one. No, Yohn, none besides Jon Snow.”

 

Bronze Yohn leaned his elbow against one of the brown, claystone battlements. He thought of writing to his son in the Night’s Watch. He supposed that Ser Waymar might be able to offer some insight about wargs, or at least relay what’s commonly believed amongst the black brothers.

 

 _No, you fool,_ Yohn chastised himself. _Waymar died in the Haunted Forest. Benjen Stark offered up some praise, but the rest of his words were as dark as the wings that carried them._

 

Jon Umber cleared his throat, then amended his last comment, “Now that I think of it, Jon Snow _wasn’t_ the only warg. The Young Wolf had a companion-beast too. Like as not, my king was a warg as much as his bastard brother. No one ever spoke of it. Well. . . least not the lords. Anyways, Ned would’ve been in the South, then.”

 

“What?” asked Royce.

 

“Ned Stark would’ve sired his bastard in the South, so the wench wasn’t like to be a wildling. From the boy’s age. . . sometime during the rebellion.”

 

Bronze Yohn had ridden with Jon Arryn in that war and remembered Lord Stark in his youth. “Ned Stark never seemed one for camp followers, nor was his reputation anything like that of his foster brother, Robert Baratheon, from when they lived in the Eyrie.”

 

“No man is flawless,” replied Umber, “not even Lord Eddard Stark. But since it’s a dragon that concerns us, we must needs raise the question that Ned found himself a. . .”

 

“A Targaryen?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Never,” replied Yohn.

 

Umber thought for a moment, before nodding in agreement. “I suppose he wouldn’t, not after what Aerys did.”

 

Other Valemen had sided with the Targaryens over Lord Arryn, but Yohn Royce never considered it, not after the sins of King Aerys. 

 

“My cousin, Ser Kyle Royce, rode with Brandon Stark.” Bronze Yohn arched his brow. Lord Umber nodded back, confirming that he knew which _ride_ Royce meant. “When the Mad King arrested Ser Kyle and summoned my uncle to explain my cousin’s actions, I was certain he was only to suffer a tongue-lashing before retrieving Kyle.”

 

“Aerys killed them?”

 

“Yes, my lord.” Yohn, though, didn’t care to dwell on the topic. “Besides, there weren’t any Targaryen women with whom to lay. Only the queen, who was with child.”

 

“If the Targaryens ever had dragon-magic of some sort,” suggested Umber, “it’d be in their blood, not their name.”

 

“My lord?”

 

“If you ever visit the villages around Last Hearth, you’ll see any number of uncommonly tall and strong children racing around, though none who carry the Umber name.”

 

“Bastards,” concluded Yohn, pensively.

 

“Aegon the Unworthy didn’t earn his name for his chastity, my lord o’ bronze. The Crownlands are most like filled with silver-haired smallfolk.”

 

“That makes as much sense as anything else, my lord. If the Stark blood aids Ser Jon-”

 

Umber added, “Like it did with King Robb and his direwolf.”

 

Yohn nodded and resumed, “Then the mixing of the Stark blood with some Targaryen bastard, who herself wasn’t like to know of the dragon’s blood she carried in her veins. . .”

 

Lord Jon grunted his agreement and they both settled on that guess, though doubts remained.

 

“But I suppose we’ll never know for sure,” supplied Bronze Yohn. “Not after what King Joffrey did to Lord Stark.”

 

The Greatjon shrugged. “All this talk of bastards,” he said, clumsily redirecting the conversation, “you wouldn’t know nothing of them, would you, Royce?”

 

He asked Umber what he meant.

 

“A lordly knight - or _knightly lord,_ rather,” Greatjon Umber said with a forced laugh. “A man like that surely doesn’t stray from his marriage vows, no matter the temptation.”

 

Royce quipped, “The chains on your sigil’s wrists, were they meant to keep your forebear fettered to his marriage bed?”

 

“Like as not, it was!” the Greatjon howled. “No man smelts iron strong enough to hold back an Umber in the throes of his lust.”

 

“How did you and I ever end up here?” he asked with a grin and a sigh. “Standing atop a Riverlands castle, awaiting the return of a dragon.”

 

“And once it gets here, we’ll wage a war in the name of a maiden-queen o’ winter.”

 

“A strange crusade, indeed,” Royce answered.

 

Bronze Yohn had gone along with the Blackfish’s plan to crown Sansa Stark as the Queen in the North more out of how it paralleled his own aims, rather than any confidence in the girl herself. _Upon what other road might I have ridden?_ “The Vale had been reined-in for too long as it was,” he said to Greatjon Umber. “The Lannisters and Tyrells cannot be trusted. There’s honor in aiding the Stark cause, as Lady Lysa should have seen. . . almost two years ago.

 

“Allying with Walder Frey, House Bolton, and the Tyrells?” Royce asked, more to himself than his uncouth counterpart. “A man like Tywin Lannister should’ve known better and chosen better for his House.”

 

Jon Umber said, “The sorry lot of them thought nothing of betraying guest-right, while the crown allowed the Ironborn to ravage the North.”

 

“Yes,” agreed Royce. “There is war, and then there is savagery.”

 

Though he knew it was ungallant of him, Yohn felt his mouth upturn into a sneer beneath his thick, grey beard. _Justice can be a double bladed axe,_ he told himself. To Lord Umber, he said, “It serves the Tyrells right; the lands of the Reach are now being pillaged by the same Ironman raiders that Lord Mace and the others were content to watch murder a bloody slash through the keeps and towns of your fellow Northmen.”

 

“They murdered my son, my heir.”

 

Yohn returned to a stern demeanor. “I know they did, my lord.”

 

_Just as a Tyrell murdered my boy, Robar._

 

Lord Umber’s disposition turned sour. He discarded his empty mug, hurling it off the battlements, and began to drink straight from the flagon. Bronze Yohn decided to leave him to his grief and turned towards the steps.

 

“Better that we've got you with us this time.”

 

He looked back at Greatjon, expecting him to elaborate.

 

The bearded Northman instead told him, “See that Darry’s smith finishes my greatsword. I’m like to rip the man’s heart from his chest, if I again hear that he’s not done.”

 

Royce nodded and took his leave. When Lord Yohn Royce descended the stairs to the courtyard of Castle Darry, a spirited argument just inside the archway caught his attention. He watched and listened as Lymond Goodbrook seemed to be taking Yohn’s eldest son, Ser Andar, to task about some matter.

 

Lymond waved men hauling a cart back into the castle and said, “Ser, spelt grain is an utterly foolish choice. You there, yes, unload those sacks. Go find the bushels of unmilled rye we brought from the Twins.”

 

Bronze Yohn asked them what was going on.

 

Lord Goodbrook said, “I am convincing your son to send these men out to sow grains into the soil.”

 

“Why?” asked Yohn.

 

Lymond smirked at him. “You too, my lord? Does no one eat bread at Runestone?” He explained, “It’s not too late to seed for spring.”

 

Frustrated, Andar insisted that he’d agreed to do precisely that.

 

“But _spelt?”_ questioned Goodbrook. “Ser, you might as well waste the first harvest when winter finally ends. That grain,” he said, pointing to the sacks in the cart, “might be hardy enough for the rocky cliffs of the Vale, but it is stingy in its yield. Instead, rye is a winter wheat that’ll lay dormant through the frosts, then sprout and ripen soon after winter breaks.”

 

Andar questioned the importance of fixating on such details for the fields surrounding a Lannister castle, but Bronze Yohn understood Goodbrook’s logic. “My son, we control Darry now. Ser Brynden or his nephew, once free, will decide what to do with it. Most like, Darry will be bestowed upon an ally of ours.”

 

Lymond concurred. He expounded on matters of farming, such as the first frost, the _fly’s day,_ and something he termed, “the dreaded yellow barley blight.”

 

Yohn was only half-listening. He was, instead, thinking of his son.

 

_I’ve done all I can to prepare him as my successor. I sanded clean the edge of his temper as best I could. By asking him to act as my steward, I shaped him into a capable governor of a castle as well as an army on the march. Andar even crouches a lance better than I do._

Bronze Yohn couldn’t resist thinking, _Better than I handle one now, but he’s not as good as I was at two-and-thirty._

 

He needed a moment to realize that Goodbrook was addressing him directly. “Pardons, Lord Lymond. What were you saying?”

 

“If today’s weather continues into the morrow, I must needs be off.”

 

Lord Royce didn’t understand.

 

The Riverlander stated, “War is no place for children. I’m not yet a father, and Ser Garse Goodbrook was the only of my uncles who survived to sire children. Little Walder Goodbrook, for the nonce, is my heir. I must needs see him and his sister, Jeyne, home and into the care of my aunts. Afterwards, I will return, my lord. I intend to join you and Ser Whitewolf on the battlefield. Though I can’t, my lord, bring any sworn swords back here with me.”

 

“What do you mean? We have need of every soldier we can muster.”

 

Lymond shook his head. “After the Freys burned my men in the camps on the night of the Red Wedding, House Goodbrook has few swords to contribute. Whoever still lives. . . I cannot steal even a single man from whatever remains of the Goodbrook garrison.” He sighed and confessed, “I don’t wish for my family to suffer the same fate as House Darry.”

 

Yohn couldn’t argue with that logic. Runestone was safely in the hands of Strong Sam and Maester Helliweg. He didn’t begrudge Lord Lymond his desire to secure his young cousins.

 

“Besides,” Goodbrook added, “your _Lords Declarant_ will arrive with fresh reserves soon enough. Reserves _and a dragon,_ my lord.”

 

“How many men will you need to accompany you? I don’t know how far away your lands are.”

 

The younger man smirked. “None, my lord. Castle Goodbrook is five-and-thirty leagues away, as the raven flies. I will stay off the River Road, ride south of Lord Harroway’s town, and keep north of villages sworn to Harrenhal. That will bring me through Blackwood Vale. Lord Tytos is a stern, old blackbird, but I’d bet my skin that he won’t hand me over to our enemies if he happens to find me.”

 

Yohn warned, “You’ll be making just that bet, my lord.”

 

Goodbrook shrugged. “I’ll keep to the wooded trails through hamlets I know well. I’ll be safe, that’s all I mean.”

 

“Our scouts and patrols haven’t located the Kingslayer’s ranks,” Lord Royce argued. “It’s a small host to be sure, no more than one or two thousand strong. But the Warrior himself would be hard-pressed to fight them off with only a seven-year-old guarding his back.”

 

“The boy is nine, my lord.”

 

Yohn smiled as he roared, “Oh my! Well in that case. . .”

 

“When did you become so droll?”

 

Royce thumped the young man on the shoulder.

 

Goodbrook continued, “If my cousins and I travel in plain dress, we aren’t like to be harassed even if we get near Lannister’s men. Besides, an army isn’t easily hidden in the countryside. I promise to give them a wide berth, my lord, even if young Jeyne should wish to duel the bloody Kingslayer herself.”

 

“What of the outlaws that Sers Harys and Donnel Haigh spoke of? The ones they hunted for and failed to capture?”

 

“The Haigh brothers were Freys in all but name. Lord Dondarrion has no quarrel with me. Moreover, I dare say I know these roads and trails better than a rogue Stormlord whose lands border Dorne.”

 

Royce persisted, “I still offer you the use of my men, no matter how short or safe your ride will be.”

 

Goodbrook just smiled and shook his head.

 

“Best of luck to you, then. We’ll watch for your return.”

 

* * *

 

Yohn Royce leaned back in his plain, wooden chair. He let his mind drift and felt the chair tilt until it bumped against the stone walls of his bedchamber.

 

Bronze Yohn was roused by a knock on his door. He opened it and found Lady Amerei Lannister begging for an audience. It was evident that the girl had been crying.

 

“I don’t know what to do,” she pleaded. “I need help, my lord. _Please.”_

 

“What troubles you?”

 

“It’s Roslin. I don’t know what to do!”

 

“Is she ill? Is there something amiss with the babe she carries?”

 

“I don’t know!”

 

It was sharply out of character for the oft fearful girl to speak so boldly with anyone. Yohn wondered if there was something gravely wrong with Lady Roslin Tully.

 

“Why haven’t you taken your concern to your mother?”

 

Amerei said, “Roslin isn’t making sense, my lord. One minute she’s begging for my mother’s aid, the next she turns her away at the door!”

 

“What about your maester?”

 

“She screamed when he came near,” insisted Ami. “Roslin panicked and refused to let him in her bedchamber.”

 

_Why would she turn away an experienced mother and a maester? Why should the girl fear either of them?_

 

“What would you and Lady Roslin have of me?”

 

Ami cried, “I don’t know, my lord! Please tell me what to do!”

 

“Fine, my lady,” he said, trying to calm the girl of eight-and-ten. “Fine. I don’t know what help I can be, but mayhaps I can convince the young woman that neither your mother nor Darry’s maester will harm her.”

 

Yohn knew that the emotions of a woman with child could be unpredictable. He’d seen that for himself during all four of his lady wife’s pregnancies. _Andar had been the hardest and Robar the easiest._ As their sons grew, Yohn and his wife had often japed that once their first two boys were out of her belly, they decided to switch their temperaments. Andar was always so eager to please and took such pride in receiving praise. _To a point, that’s still true._ On the other hand, Robar was the most willful of the Royces. _And true to form, he decided to head off to fight another House’s war._

 

Lord Royce needed Amerei to show him where Roslin Tully resided, because he’d never thought to go looking for her before. Lord Lymond Goodbrook had been the caretaker of his liege lord’s wife and unborn child. However, he was still absent from the castle.

 

At the door to the bedchamber, Maester Ottomore, all skin and bones, stood with Lady Mariya Darry.

 

“I brought him, Mother.”

 

“I can see that, child.” She looked up at Bronze Yohn and said, “My lord, I would not burden you with this if I could think of any other course.”

 

The maester explained, “Lady Tully refuses to allow myself or Lady Mariya into the room.”

 

“You are a man grown,” Yohn chided him. “Lady Roslin is barely more than a girl. Why have you not simply entered?”

 

Mariya Darry said, “My lord, it’s not as simple as that. Lady Tully thrashed about in her bed.”

 

“And she _screamed_ ,” supplied Ami.

 

“Yes, my lady, that she did,” the maester agreed. “It was a terrifying sight, all the more so for the babe in her womb. Much can happen in a mother’s last moon of carrying. Lest she do harm to herself or the unborn child, I thought it best that we obey her.”

 

“Until I convince her otherwise,” finished Yohn. “Is that the way of it?”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“Now, maester, am I about to step into _a birthing chamber?_ Is it possible a babe is about to plop out of her?”

 

“In a word, _no_. She is not.” Ottomore informed him, “Of the unborn babes who reach this point healthy and still kicking, fewer than one-in-ten are born now, given that there remains three weeks or so. You see, we maesters count the moon turns from a woman’s last bleeding. So nine-”

 

 _“Enough,”_ Yohn interrupted. “I have no need for any such details.”

 

Lord Royce and Lady Amerei then entered the bedchamber. Inside, a short-haired, young maiden was kneeling beside the bed. At the sound of his footsteps, Lady Tully’s head shot up from the cushions.

 

The younger girl ran a hand across Tully’s cheek and said, “Do not fear, Ros. I am certain that my mother and Maester Ottomore will not enter without your leave. My sister, you’ll not object to, will you?”

 

Roslin shook her head.

 

_She’s terrified! What foolishness is this?_

 

“My lady, I am here to help in any way I can,” stated Bronze Yohn. “Doubtless, you won’t object to my presence either? I shall keep to the far edge of the room.”

 

The maiden spoke on her behalf, “Of course she won’t, my lord. Roslin would never be so discourteous as all that.”

 

Lady Tully continued to stare, not saying a word.

 

Bronze Yohn knew little of Roslin Tully, though he knew well how differently children could react to pressure or enticement. In raising his own brood, Yohn always thought of them as two pairs: his elder boys, Andar and Robar, were his first pair. His third son, Waymar, and his only daughter, Ysilla, were the other. Punishment had been the swiftest remedy for the older duo’s recurrent fighting, and rewards were the most effective encouragement for his more sensitive, younger two.

 

Roslin seemed likely to need the latter.

 

“My dear,” he said to the maiden, “how can we entice Lady Tully to allow the maester to see her?”

 

“No! No! No!” Roslin screamed before the girl could answer. The scared, young woman slammed her fists out to the sides.

 

“Stop,” he told her. “Please, child. Just stop.”

 

She kept up the hysteria, and Royce rushed over and knelt beside her. He took hold of her arms and showed Roslin her bloody knuckles. “Don’t you see what you did? You bashed your hand against the bed frame. My lady, you’re in the late stage of carrying. You must needs banish this folly from your mind. If not for yourself, then at least for your child.”

 

“Yes. . . yes, my lord.”

 

Yohn imagined that Roslin was his Ysilla and tried to think of what he’d say to his daughter. Lord Royce felt lacking when the only words that came to him were, “Easy, sweetling. Be calm. Don’t be afraid.”

 

Not a moment later, Roslin Tully again started to yell.

 

He demanded, “Stop, I said!” The command had no effect on her. “I won’t bring the maester, my lady. Ottomore will stay away! Whatever _\- my lady -_  whatever the man did to you, I won’t let him harm-”

 

Her screams stopped abruptly, and so too did Bronze Yohn.

 

He stepped away from the bed, giving the woman space to breathe and a measure of privacy.

 

From the bedside, the girl said, “That scream was different, my lord. That outburst. . .” She leaned over and demanded, “Ros, you will tell me what’s wrong. You hear me? _Right, now._ ”

 

Lady Tully’s lip quivered. She began to sob. Through her tears, she forced out a whisper to the younger girl.

 

“What is it?” Yohn asked.

 

For a moment, the girl muttered to herself frantically.

 

“What troubles her?” he asked again.

 

“A _codfish,_ my lord. _What do you think it is?”_

 

He ignored the disrespectful reply. “If Lady Tully won’t suffer the presence of Maester Ottomore, she’ll have to endure Lady Darry. I’ll tolerate no more arguments.”

 

He left the bedchamber and shut the door behind him. To Mariya Darry and the maester, he said, “The young woman’s taken leave of her wits. My lady, something’s likely amiss with the babe. You should look in on her. Maester, better that you wait without. . . until you’re needed.”

 

Lady Mariya agreed to watch over Roslin. She told Maester Ottomore, “Please stay close, I’ll call out if we need you.” The woman looked to Royce. “And you, my lord?”

 

“With respect, my lady, I shall give that bedroom a wide berth for the nonce.”

 

* * *

 

To Yohn, the following hours were marked by only the periodic cries reverberating through the keep. It continued on, and he worried most for the unborn child.

 

Night had fallen when the wailing finally relented. Lord Royce made his way to discover if Edmure Tully had lost his heir, and possibly his bride as well.

 

The chamber door was closed, and Bronze Yohn waited patiently.

 

After a quarter hour, the bedroom opened and the attendant girl came striding out with a crying bundle in her arms.

 

“Oh, my lord!” she exclaimed. “Since you’re here, well, have a gander.”

 

Yohn chuckled at her exuberance. He touched her elbow, directing her to better cradle the infant’s head. She instead handed the newborn to him. With no regard for staining his surcoat, Yohn wiped off some of the birthing blood from the babe’s face.

 

“She’s a girl, Lord Royce.”

 

He looked through the open doorway and bid Lady Roslin his congratulations, “The Mother be praised, my lady. A healthy daughter.”

 

Seeing him, Lady Tully huddled in her bed sheets. Her hands were balled into fists and trembling.

 

“Are you well?”

 

Lady Mariya answered for her, “Yes, my lord. Roslin’s quite well.”

 

He jostled the wailing infant and paced in the hallway. “Hush now, hush,” he whispered to the newborn. “Like you, my Ysilla decided to enter the world early.”

 

His daughter had been far smaller than Andar, Robar, or Waymar were at birth. And while Yohn’s boys were born with tufts of copper-brown hair on their scalps, Ysilla’s head had been bare. Bronze Yohn remembered how irrationally worried he’d been, until Maester Helliweg assured him that a bald head wasn’t a sign that the newborn was ill. He explained that such was the way for all early births, and that before the new moon his daughter would begin to sprout hair and put on more baby fat.

 

Bronze Yohn stared at the babe’s red face. He wiped his hands on his tunic, then put his pinky finger up against the newborn’s lips. She quieted for him. The babe rooted around, then began to gum the tip of his finger.

 

“You’re a big one, my young minnow,” he said softly. “Bigger than Robar and Waymar were. . . yes, you are. Nearly of size with Andar, the biggest of my four.”

 

_This babe even has a ring of dark hair around her head and a wisp of it sticking up on top. This. . . this is no early birth. This babe is nine moons grown._

_But. . ._

_But, the night of the Red Wedding was only. . ._

 

And suddenly, Yohn Royce understood. Deep in his bones, the realization felt like defeat.

 

He paced back to the room and returned the newborn to the girl’s arms. Royce entered the bedchamber, and the cheery maiden followed.  _She’s the only one who looks the least bit excited,_ he thought, staring at the faces of the new mother in the bed, the older one standing over her, and the maester.

 

“That babe is nine moons grown.”

 

“My lord?” probed the boney maester.

 

 _“I know,”_ he replied. “Most like, Lady Roslin was already with child when Walder Frey demanded that Tully take her as his bride.”

 

“What?!” exclaimed the girl holding the babe.

 

Lady Roslin turned away from Yohn, but Mariya and Ottomore looked remorseful, not surprised.

 

He continued, “Frey couldn’t have expected Edmure Tully to share my lady’s bed for more than the one night. No, not with what he was planning.” Royce wished that the situation were otherwise. He met Lady Mariya’s eyes, hoping she could explain away his speculation.

 

The woman said nothing.

 

To Roslin’s back, he said, “My lady, that’s why you tried to refuse the maester. You didn’t want him to look at this babe and realize the truth.”

 

Roslin turned over in bed; tears were streaming down her face. “Marissa was supposed to bring her to the nursery, not hand her over to _you.”_   Her voice quivered with her distress. “My lord,” she pleaded. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise me! Please, my lord, _take pity._ Please!”

 

Bronze Yohn made his decision straight away, but felt guilty voicing it. “I cannot make any such promise, my lady. The child would be the heir to Riverrun and House Tully. There would be no honor in falling prey to sympathy. The Blackfish will need to hear of this.”

 

“Who did it?” her friend questioned. “Who got you with child, Ros?”

 

She hid her face in her hands. “What does it matter? Now they’ll all know! Lord Edmure. . .”

 

“Was it Black Walder?” asked the girl.

 

“Of course not!”

 

“Then. . ?”

 

“But, Marissa!” shouted Roslin, still sitting in the soiled, birthing bed.

 

Mariya Darry told her to answer, and the young woman turned sheepish. “Do you. . . really need to know? Do. . . do I have to say?” Under her older good-sister’s glare, she disclosed, “It was. . . Damon.”

 

“Ser Damon?” questioned Marissa.

 

Royce asked, “Who?”

 

“He said we might get married,” whined Roslin.

 

The maiden told Yohn, “Ser Damon Vypren. Lythene Frey’s son.”

 

“Mare, you don’t understand! You were always off somewhere else! Darry or wherever. I had only _The Crossing._ I am Father’s fifth daughter. Tyta the Maid is the fourth. She’s almost thirty and still without a husband.”

 

“But you’re only eight-and-ten, Ros.”

 

“You don’t understand! Tyta was doomed to spend _the rest of her life_ at the Twins. Father had already started marrying off _grand-_ daughters. Lythene’s daughter, Elyana, got to leave for the Stormlands. Ser Stevron’s Maegelle got to marry a Vance and move to Wayfarer’s Rest.”

 

The girl shouted back, “Ros, don’t be dim! Maegelle died giving birth.”

 

“Would that I had too!” Edmure Tully’s wife collapsed into a fit of tears.

 

“I’ll leave you to the care of the maester and Lady Mariya,” Lord Royce said, bowing and taking his leave.

 

* * *

 

Bronze Yohn sat in the lord’s bedchambers on the top floor of Plowman’s Keep, reading his letter over again. He dreaded sending it, because of the empathy he felt for all parties involved.

 

_The newborn, the dead knight who sired her, Lady Roslin, even Lord Edmure. . ._

 

“My lord?”

 

Yohn looked up to see Mariya Darry peeking through the cracked door. “By all means,” he replied and leaned over to push out a chair for her. She sat beside him. In the candle-light, Yohn noticed her staring down at what he was writing. “Would you care to read the message?”

 

She stated that it made no matter how he phrased the news.

 

Lord Royce offered, “I wish the babe’s blood was pure.”

 

“Roslin’s daughter isn’t the first child born on the wrong side of the sheet, nor will she be the last.”

 

“If you’re trying to lend me solace,” he said, “I thank you for the gesture.”

 

“You are not the one who requires my sympathy, my lord. Nor my care.”

 

“Of course not, my lady.”

 

He offered her a sip from his wine glass and was surprised that she accepted it. Lady Darry drank slowly and didn’t say another word until she drained the goblet.

 

“Would my lord be kind enough to offer this old woman another glass?”

 

As he poured, Yohn said, “ _Old?_ My lady’s seen at least twenty namedays fewer than I.”

 

“Kind of you to say, but that count should be less than ten.” She swirled the wine in her glass, staring at it. Shifting the topic, the lady asked, “What is to become of my good-sister’s bastard?”

 

He furrowed his brow at her sudden bluntness. After a moment, he shrugged. “That’s a matter for House Tully to decide.”

 

 _“Family, duty, honor,”_ she recited. “Where does the bastard of a Tully’s wife fall? _”_

 

_I don’t know._

 

Mariya said, “Woe is the woman who comes not to her marriage bed a maiden.”

 

“Tully was a fool not to notice it. Mayhaps if he had. . .”

 

“In her first moons with child,” answered Darry, “a woman bleeds in accord with the babe growing inside her. Roslin says that was how Walder Frey learned that she was carrying one. The girl’s mother was long dead, so she had only the maester to turn to with her questions on motherhood. The maester informed Lord Frey. On the wedding night, the groom wasn’t like to know the difference between _maiden’s blood_ and the blood of a swelling mother.”

 

Mariya Darry looked up, and her face reddened. “Forgive me, my lord. I am exhausted. You, without doubt, have no desire to hear such things.”

 

“No,” he agreed, “I certainly do not.”

 

She chuckled, and he leaned over to refill her glass. Lady Mariya took a sip and passed it back to Lord Yohn, who gulped down half the cup.

 

“My lord. . . what if you didn’t lie, but merely held your tongue? Think of it. Lord Edmure is still a captive in Casterly Rock, and Ser Brynden is aged and childless. You, your bannermen, your liege, even your queen, they all need the babe to be trueborn. _Would that she were born a boy,_ of course _._ Still, she might be the only hope for the Tully name.”

 

“The Lannisters will return Lord Edmure soon enough. Your master-at-arms will reach King’s Landing in short time, if he hasn’t already. The Small Council shall no doubt tremble at all Ser Harwyn says.”

 

“A dragon can have that effect,” she replied. “And yet. . . who can know what reaction Roslin’s lord husband will have.”

 

“Lord Edmure’s soft heart is well known,” countered Yohn.

 

“Mayhaps once. . . but after his captivity?”

 

Yohn Royce knew that wives had been executed for less. After their foul wedding and her father’s betrayal, Lord Royce thought it likely that Roslin would eventually lose her head. _Still, that does not change the truth._

 

“I can’t lie for the infant,” he told her. “I can’t, my lady.”

 

“I never thought you would, my lord.”

 

He looked at her sideways, and she explained, “I had to ask, Lord Royce. For Roslin’s sake.”

 

The two of them sat for a short while, exchanging no words.

 

Then, Lady Mariya said, “Earlier you offered me the chance to see your letter. Does that proposal still stand?”

 

Royce picked up the parchment and read for her:

 

_“To Ser Brynden Tully in Riverrun,_

_A child was born to your nephew’s wife, Lady Roslin. She brought a healthy girl into this world. With no joy, I write that the babe was not sired by Lord Edmure. His bride was already with child when he married her, ser. I shall spare you any further details, but on my honor, I have no doubt of the newborn’s parentage.”_

 

Lady Darry asked, “Is that how you ended it?”

 

“I was not certain how to end the letter.”

 

“Will you add a request that Ser Brynden deals gently with Roslin?”

 

“No,” Yohn replied, and the woman recoiled away from him. “Roslin Frey had the opportunity to disclose her father’s plots and spare many good men, including Lord Umber’s son. I will not speak on her behalf.”

 

After a moment, he offered, “However. . . I can write to him that the bastard’s father was a Vypren, not a Frey. That may help to save the baby girl, even if it does nothing to shield the mother.”

 

Lady Mariya, a widow of House Frey and mayhaps the last of House Darry, took her leave without asking anything else of Bronze Yohn.

 

“I _do_ wish the babe’s blood was pure,” he whispered again, once she was gone. _“Tully_ is yet one more House robbed of its heir by that gods-forsaken Walder Frey. May he spend the rest of time being tortured through all seven hells.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In additional to all of the great one-off comments on the last chapter, Himura and Wavelet got into a great discussion of the characters and how they're being portrayed. I know that some fic writers don't like that to go on for too long, but I fully encourage it. 
> 
> So to the two of them and to all the readers who post their thoughts to this little story, thanks and cheers!


	62. Jon - A prisoner in the Vale

“Whether you display it with words or armies,” Ser Symond Templeton said, _“courage_ is what will prove to your allies and enemies alike that you've truly become the Queen in the North.”

 

Jon had already finished breaking his fast, but he remained at the corner of the table and listened to what Templeton was privately telling Sansa.

 

“Being a ruler - whether a lord, king, or a queen - has less to do with rightful claims or laws.”

 

She asked him what he meant by that, and he replied, “Those who look to you, they must needs see you as their ruler. And that starts, Your Grace, with you believing as much within your own heart.”

 

“But I do,” she contended.

 

Templeton explained that in the face of Lord Melcolm’s threats, Sansa did not react like a queen needs to.

 

Jon questioned, “What would you have done in her place?”

 

“Sansa, Jon,” he said with a sigh. “The reactions you both had. . . they were understandable, but most assuredly not wise. Queen Sansa, I can scarcely imagine all that you suffered, yet, you can no longer be the complaisant girl you once were. _That_ is what I’ve been trying to impart, Your Grace.

 

“And ser,” he directed to Jon. “How you act determines how the lords shall act toward you.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You are a knight, a bastard, and the commander of a dragon. Each of those three will garner different degrees of courtesy from my fellow Valemen. As for your actions yesterday,” he added, “charging into the room was bold.”

 

Jon couldn’t help from grinning, but Templeton briskly corrected, “Be cautious about employing that tactic in the future. What worked well the once is not like to work a second time.”

 

“Understood, Ser Symond.”

 

Sansa asked, “What shall _I_ do next?”

 

“The present challenge is Osgood Melcolm.”

 

After Lady Waynwood had gone to speak with him, the Lord of Old Anchor returned to the council room with her. Lord Melcolm offered bountiful apologies to Sansa Stark and the others. He insisted that he’d only misinterpreted the letter from Storm’s End and begged for Queen Sansa and the Lords Declarant to understand.

 

“Should I not have offered him forgiveness?” asked Sansa.

 

“You were right to do so,” Symond concurred. “We need his ships and hanging him for a rebel wouldn’t have sat well with the other lords, if they allowed it to happen at all.”

 

She asked about what she should do, moving forward.

 

“For the nonce, caution is my council. Accept Melcolm’s support and grant him the chance to prove himself. Just be watchful that he makes no move to subvert our cause.”

 

Templeton thought for a moment, then quipped, “But unless he ensnares a dragon of his own, the man would be a fool to cross you, Queen Stark.” He resumed his more serious council and said, “Osgood Melcolm is no Aemon the Dragonknight, but he’ll not embarrass himself in battle, either. Opposed to Lady Waynwood, though, I don’t think his lance is the prime reason you should send him with our army. Doing thusly keeps him far from you and the Gates of the Moon, while also putting him under the purview of Bronze Yohn.”

 

Jon wondered, “Wouldn’t Sansa be better served if she just sent him back to Old Anchor?”

 

Ser Symond shook his head. “If Lord Melcolm has designs on conspiring against Her Grace, he won’t be doing any of it while on the march. It’d be too risky for him and, moreover, impossible since ravens aren’t trained to find a traveling army.”

 

Sansa Stark nodded her agreement.

 

“With that settled,” he said, and his manner turned brighter. “Myself, Lord Melcolm, Ser Jon, Marwyn Belmore, Horton Redfort, Lord Corbray and his _Lady Forlorn,_ and the Lords of the Sisters, we shall all go to Castle Darry. Lady Waynwood will return to the Gates with you, Queen Sansa. As Master of Whispers, Grafton will be best placed if he returns to his seat, the most trafficked port in the Vale. On that point, Your Grace, be sure Lady Waynwood brings with her any Gulltown-trained ravens the Ironoaks rookery can spare.”

 

Sansa nodded.

 

“And once Your Grace is back at the Gates. . .”

 

“Yes?” she replied.

 

“Have you thought on what you’d like to do with the other queen, the queen dowager?”

 

“Who?”

 

Jon answered her, “Jeyne Stark, our good-sister.”

 

“Yes, of course,” Sansa said in return, then began to tighten the end of her intricate braid.

 

“What are you asking about Queen Jeyne?” Jon questioned Ser Symond.

 

“Everything, I suppose,” he answered. “How do you and Her Grace regard her? What are your plans for her?”

 

“She was Robb’s wife,” stated Jon. “She’s a member of House Stark.”

 

Templeton said, “One might say that _two_ queens are one too many. Mayhaps she should be returned to her lord father’s castle.”

 

Jon shook his head. “He is a Lannister bannerman.”

 

“Ser, it would be too great a risk,” said Sansa. “More so because the succession of the North remains unsettled.”

 

Jon and Symond looked at her.

 

“If my heir isn’t established in the minds of the lords, someone might slit my throat to press the claim of someone else.”

 

Ser Jon didn’t what to envision that, but couldn’t argue with the possibility.

 

“Think on it,” she told them. “Without a child of my own. . .  Well, it's true that Jeyne has no rightful claim to the North on her own. But what if she’s coerced by her mother, or someone else, to bear a child? Someone who cares as little for the truth as Cersei Lannister might claim it was Robb’s son or daughter that Jeyne carries, even if the babe is born a year too late.”

 

“Your Grace’s brother chose an heir,” said Symond. “Why not select the same man?”

 

“Benjen?” asked Sansa.

 

“Yes, my queen.”

 

She mentioned something about Benjen being a good choice, but Jon only half-heard it.

 

 _Benjen Stark, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch._ Jon Snow didn’t know how to feel about that selection. He tried to tell himself that if Robb had chosen their uncle, then it was fitting for Sansa to do the same. However, Ser Jon couldn’t fully content himself with it.

 

“What you need. . . is a husband,” he heard Templeton say, “and from him, _a son.”_

 

Sansa offered no immediate response, so Jon jumped in, “When Her Grace is ready to wed, she shall. It isn’t a decision to rush into. Further, we do not yet have any worthy candidates to present her.”

 

The Knight of Ninestars retreated from that topic. He said, “Getting back to Lady Jeyne Westerling-”

 

Sansa cut in, remarking, “It’s better that she’s called Jeyne Stark or the _queen dowager._ As Jon thinks I should, I will see that she retains her marriage name.” She looked at him and added, “Jon, I’ll see that she’s protected too, whilst you’re off in the Riverlands. If Ser Mychel Redfort and Ser Lucas Corbray are the first two of my Honorguard, when they meet me. . . at the Gates of the Moon, I’ll see that one guards her.”

 

Jon inclined his head to his sister, then asked the Knight of Ninestars if he had any advice for him.

 

Templeton answered, “Be Queen Sansa’s swordsman. Her fearsome, bastard brother. Let her be the regal silk, while you become the-”

 

Servants sprinted across the hall, startling Ser Symond and shaking their table.

 

“. . . chainmail beneath,” he finished.

 

Jon asked, “Do you know what that’s about?”

 

“I don’t, but we can find out.”

 

The three of them made their way out to the courtyard of the castle. Cobblestone paths led between the square towers of Ironoaks. The paths had been cleared of snow by boots and by shovels. Jon saw that guards were heading to the other side of the castle, away from the main gate.

 

Stark, Templeton, and Whitewolf followed the guards. They saw men wearing the brown cloaks of House Hunter coming up the triple-wide steps carved into the rocky ground. The men were escorting dozens of prisoners up to Anya Waynwood, who waited at the top of the stone stairway. The man at the head of the new arrivals was stout and red-faced, with a thick mustache.

 

Sansa whispered to Ser Symond, “Is that _Young_ Lord Hunter? He must be fifty.”

 

“Nearly, but then again _everyone_ looked young next to Old Lord Eon.” Templeton weaved through the onlookers, guiding Jon and Sansa.

 

The bound man, whom Gilwood Hunter had led personally, was speaking to Lady Anya.

 

“Not her,” Jon heard the prisoner shout. “Him! Right over there!”

 

The servants, knights, and guardsmen all looked over their shoulders.

 

“Yes! Him! _There,”_ the accented voice insisted.

 

The crowd parted, and Jon caught a glance from Lady Waynwood.

 

_Who? Me?_

 

“Ser,” she called to him. “This man begs an audience. Do you know him?”

 

Off guard, Jon only shook his head.

 

“Do you so soon forget the face of a friend?” he heard the prisoner ask. “Do you, Ser Wolf? Do you. . . _Uynars?”_

 

* * *

 

“Why should I listen?” Jon argued, now that he and Captain Brox of the _Pale Blood_ were alone. “Why would I believe anything you say?”

 

“Because you know me, Uynars,” the seafarer stated through the dungeon’s iron bars.

 

“Do I, Brox? You lied to me before. You lied for your own aims.”

 

“Did I lie?” returned the imprisoned captain. “Perhaps I did, perhaps not. . . However, never did I betray you. Yes, I steered you toward what I thought was the wiser choice. But where another man might have forsaken you - stolen your goods and tossed you into the sea - I only used my words to push you towards a decision.”

 

“What difference does that make?”

 

“Am I some godly priest?”

 

He answered his own question, “No, I am not. But am I a traitor? Am I a thief? Am I not your friend?”

 

“My _friend?_ A man without honor, how could he ever be my friend?”

 

“I have my honor,” Brox insisted. “Is it the same as yours? Perhaps not. Mine is the honor of a chandler. I prod and bargain and offer a tradesman’s pitch. Never do I steal. I will not out-and-out cheat any man, no matter the gains. I try to drive the price up or down as it suits my interests. Is that the same as a what a thief does, Uynars?” His bronze bracelets clinked together as he crossed his arms. “Have you forgotten what the actions of honorless men truly look like?”

 

_The corsairs on the Summer Sea._

 

“Fine, captain,” Jon said in concession. “Make your offer.”

 

The beleaguered man sighed with relief. “Our friend in common, Ser Wylis of Manderly, asked me to seek you out. He said to listen for word of you. According to Wylis, you were last known to be at the Twins. That you destroyed a castle. He supposed that you were somewhere between White Harbor and King’s Landing, which is no trifling distance. He thought finding you unlikely, but said the reward would exceed _years_ worth of trade profits.”

 

“So you went looking for me?” Jon asked, skeptical.

 

“So, _I kept on with my business,_ ” he corrected. “Though, I listened for whispers at every way-stop. I have to say, Ser Uynars, you weren’t nearly so hard to find as Manderly led me to think. Captains and fishwives alike gossip over _‘The Weasel Lord’_ at one harbor and a _‘snow dragon’_ at the next. Beyond that, it wasn’t hard.”

 

“And yet, you arrive here a prisoner of Lord Hunter?”

 

“That is an exaggeration,” he said, waving the back of his hand with a feminine grace. “I happened to ask too many questions, perhaps, but only because I knew you were near-at-hand.”

 

“Only because you think there’s profit in it for you.”

 

“Ser, you wound me,” said the captain, leaning against the bars and looking Jon in the eye. “For the profit, yes, but not _only_ for the profit. I hoped to see you once more, hoped to find you in better spirits than when last I left you. It would seem that I have.”

 

Jon couldn’t help feeling that Brox was telling him the truth. _If Ser Wylis is trying to find me, most like the Manderlys are still loyal to the Stark cause._

 

He knew it was possible that Lord Manderly’s son had other intentions. Nevertheless, he let it fill him with hope. _Mayhaps. . . mayhaps our chances of uniting the North aren’t so bleak._ For all that he’d insisted to Lady Waynwood that he was certain the lords of the North would rise for Sansa Stark, Jon couldn’t be sure. Not until he saw it for himself. _House Manderly would be a powerful ally._

 

He prayed, _The first of many._

 

Easing up on his hard-line stance, Jon asked, “Captain, is there anything else I should know?”

 

“There is always more for a man to know, Uynars,” he replied with a coyness. “As to your meaning, ser. . . yes.”

 

“Yes?”

 

 _“Yes._ I do not know how you shall react to hear it, however.” Jon gestured for him to continue, and the merchant captain from Qarth said, “Manderly insisted that I was to bring along Sansa Stark too.”

 

Ser Jon began to protest, but Captain Brox preempted him. “Do not be angry with me, Uynars. I only relay Manderly’s requirements, nothing more.”

 

* * *

 

“What did the prisoner say?” asked Sansa. The Vale lords looked on, waiting for the same answer.

 

“Captain Brox says Ser Wylis Manderly sent him.”

 

“To what end, Jon?”

 

“He swears that the Manderlys want you and me to go to White Harbor.”

 

More grins than frowns emerged on the faces of the men listening. From among them, Symond Templeton stepped forward. “Very well. This is good news, my lords.”

 

Lady Waynwood questioned that conclusion. “Are we certain of that? Did Lord Manderly not bend the knee to Tywin Lannister and his ilk? Did you not hear of his decision to execute Lord Stannis Baratheon’s envoy. Is that not proof of his fealty to the Iron Throne?”

 

“The Freys murdered one of his sons and the Lannisters held the other,” Jon stated plainly. “My lady, of course he’d do what he had to in order to get his son back. What allegiance does Wylis or his father owe Stannis Baratheon? Lady Waynwood, I’m not sure what to make of the Manderlys or the captain they sent to find me, but killing Stannis’ knight does nothing to sway my opinion.”

 

Symond Templeton added, “An onion is not a direwolf.”

 

“Nor is a stag,” said Lord Grafton.

 

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “But, who shall we send?”

 

Gerold Grafton answered first, “If Roose Bolton has the younger Stark girl, we must send the older sister if we wish to bring the Northmen to our cause.”

 

“I could be the one to go,” offered Jon.

 

Grafton dismissed that idea. “What claim does a bastard have to his father’s lordship?”

 

“The North is different,” he tried to explain. “And also, it’s not the real Arya-”

 

Lord Triston Sunderland spoke over Ser Jon, “Whether Bolton has a true Stark or an imposter, how can we disprove his claim, my lords?”

 

Templeton countered, “Is that something we even have to disprove? Her Grace is the elder.”

 

“We have her direwolf,” said Ser Morton Waynwood. “Who but the real Sansa Stark would have a tamed _direwolf?”_

 

 _Ghost doesn’t belong to her,_ Jon thought.  _And, he isn't tame._

 

“Most like,” Lord Grafton guessed, “the northern lords already know Bolton has a false daughter.”

 

“Huh?” responded Sunderland.

 

“How could they not? They _must_ know. She was their liege’s daughter. In all likelihood, they’re swallowing the lie out of necessity.”

 

“Whether they know or not,” posed Morton Waynwood, “does it make a difference? Say you’re right, my lord, what then?”

 

The slump-back Lord of Gulltown smiled through his brown teeth. “The false Stark girl. . . once more, what was her name?”

 

He didn’t wait for the answer. “Well, she’s wed to Bolton’s bastard. That’s as distasteful a match as I can picture. If, instead, the Northmen are presented the elder sister, still a maiden and free to wed any northern son she might choose. . . By the Father’s wisdom, every lord with a son or grandson he dreams of seating in Winterfell must needs lend his support, lest he miss his chance. Worse still, he sees a rival House place one of its own as the Lord Protector of the North.” Grafton rubbed together his liver-spotted hands. “For that chance alone, they might flock to our army. By the bye. . . what is to happen to the castles of our foes?”

 

Sunderland halted Gerold Grafton’s musings. “With regard to Her Grace’s hand, hasn’t she already been wed?”

 

“I am no Lannister,” corrected Sansa.

 

The Knight of Ninestars asked, “Your Grace, how long ago was it that you sent off those two septas to King’s Landing? The ones from Harry the Heir’s betrothal, who could bear witness to your virtue?”

 

 _To her maidenhead._ Jon shuttered at the thought, for he had no taste for this course of discussion, and answered, “The High Septon seemed an honest man, the one time I met him. I have no doubt that he shall annul that mockery of a wedding as soon as he hears of it.”

 

A look of bewilderment crossed Sunderland’s face. “You. . . _met the High Septon?_ When?”

 

“My lord, Ser Jon has the right of it,” stated Symond Templeton. He pushed the discussion along, “I have a different concern, Queen Sansa. As Brynden the Blackfish said, the Young Wolf disinherited you in his will.”

 

“In favor of my uncle,” she recounted for the lords who hadn’t heard this.

 

“Who is he?” questioned Sunderland.

 

Jon answered, “Benjen Stark, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

 

Gerold Grafton coaxed, “What will this other Stark require before he puts aside his claim?”

 

 _Uncle Benjen is neither an oathbreaker nor a man to be bought off_. He called to mind what Lord Commander Stark had told him, _“Jon, I said the words. . .”_

 

“Damned if he doesn’t sue for the best of our enemies’ lordships,” complained Grafton. “What will that leave us? For our second sons and grandsons?”

 

“My lord, what are you talking about?” Ser Jon begged to know.

 

“Uncle Ben,” began Sansa, her voice oddly cheerful amidst the disjointed meeting. “He’ll offer his support to me, I know it.”

 

From the far corner of the room, Lord Godric Borrell called out his own question, “Does Lord Manderly expect the queen to arrive speedily, or only after our affairs in the Riverlands are through?”

 

Admiring that notion, Lord Corbray echoed it, “It would appear we have two courses from which to choose. The first is a direct route to White Harbor. A lengthier one runs up through the marshes of the Neck, my lords.”

 

Lord Osgood Melcolm advised, “Better to get on with it, Your Grace.”

 

“Please explain, my lord.”

 

“The longer we delay, the further into winter the hour becomes. Better for us to make for White Harbor straight off.”

 

“What about Lord Royce?” she asked.

 

As Melcolm mulled it over, Gerold Grafton suggested, “The only armies to contend with are the Kingslayer’s company and whatever Freys took Seagard from Lord Mallister. Three thousand well-fed Valemen should be enough to manhandle either of those hosts. To ensure routs of both, let us send Bronze Yohn twice what he truly needs.”

 

“Six thousand?”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Grafton responded. “The other four-and-ten thousand levies can chart a course around the Fingers and across the Bite.”

 

Templeton said, “In addition to winter, Mace Tyrell’s Reachmen present a deadline of their own. Who can say how long the ironmen will keep up their fight. Mayhaps Euron Greyjoy decides to flee back to his rocks with his plunder.”

 

“Once their shores are secure,” added Morton Waynwood, “Paxter Redwyne can ferry Mace Tyrell’s army to any-which-where the Lord Flower fancies.”

 

“My thoughts precisely,” Ser Symond concurred. “The Vale is a long and exhausting march away from the besieged Storm’s End, but by ship. . ?”

 

“If we can bring low Roose Bolton before the Redwyne fleet returns to this side of Westeros,” Jon supposed, “what choice will Lord Tyrell have but to consent to our terms?”

 

Morton answered, “He could mount a campaign of his own, ser.”

 

Lady Waynwood contested her son’s idea, saying, “After the Reachmen have bloodied their armor against the Ironborn plaguing their castles and against the Golden Company in the Stormlands, they’ll have little taste for trudging through the muck of the Riverlands.”

 

Queen Sansa added, “And even less of a palate for Vale mountains or northern snows.”

 

Gerold Grafton coughed for several seconds. He then used the moment of attention to push his earlier idea, “Does that not settle the matter, my lords? I say to the lot of you, dawdle like quaggy-cocked curs no longer! Send the greater share of our army north. And with it, send to the Northmen their queen. See if that doesn’t bring them to heel quick enough!”

 

In response, the lords began to speak over each other. Lady Waynwood voiced her displeasure at putting Sansa at risk, as did Lord Sunderland. Ser Symond seemed eager to head north that very moment. In the discord, Jon could barely discern the judgments of the others.

 

He attempted to cut through the noise. “I’m not sure about this, Sansa.”

 

“Sansa?”

 

 _“Sansa,”_ he repeated amidst the arguing.

 

_This is a bad idea. Going north before knowing the risks? Getting caught up in the Valemen’s ambitions? This discussion is getting beyond me._

 

He walked over to his sister and grasped her arm. The assembly fell silent.

 

“Jon?”

 

 _Queen or not, you are still my silly, naive sister._ “Outside,” he insisted.

 

As Jon pulled her to the door, Ser Morton moved to block their path. Sansa told the knight not to worry and offered up her pardons to the others.

 

 _Let them wait,_ thought Jon. _This is a family concern._

 

He brought her along, searching for an unlocked door and an empty room. When he found one, he led her inside and latched the door behind them.

 

Seeing the harried look in her eyes, Jon said, “Sansa, don’t worry about what those lords think right now. This isn’t their choice.”

 

“Is it yours?”

 

 _“It is._ Obviously, it is.”

 

She gave him a sidelong glance. After a pause, she wondered, “I thought you wanted to take back our home. What Lord Hunter’s prisoner said, isn’t that just the assurance you wished for? I thought you knew him, that captain. Do you not?”

 

“I do. . . and that’s part of what worries me.”

 

She asked him to explain.

 

“He doesn’t lack for wits. But. . . Brox tricked me into sailing off on his ship. It was his tricks that made everyone think I was dead.”

 

“But you weren’t. He didn’t harm you.”

 

“Didn’t he?!” Jon barked with more anger than he meant. _Robb and Father and Lydrea, Bran and Rickon, they all died thinking me long dead._

 

“What about Ser Wylis?” she asked gingerly.

 

“Sansa. . .” An apology for his outburst hung on his tongue. “Sansa, we don’t know what to expect from _anyone._ ”

 

She questioned, “So you want me to stay at the Gates of the Moon?”

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

“For how long?”

 

“Until it’s safe,” he replied. _Why does she look so agitated by that?_

 

Sansa began to pace the room. With her back to him, she said, “I can handle danger, Jon. _Really I can._ What I cannot. . . _King’s Landing._ I can’t go back to that. I don’t want to _ever_ be a captive again.”

 

“All the more reason you _should_ stay behind.”

 

She shook her head. “Staying behind. . .  I don’t know how to explain the feeling. In the Red Keep, under the thumb of the Lannisters. . . They could’ve killed me whenever they wanted to. They were _enemies,_ but I had to treat them like. . .” Sansa looked at the floor. “I said that Robb was a traitor. I said Joffrey would be the perfect king, that I _admired_ him. He executed Father after giving me his word that he would be merciful. I called our father a traitor. It was. . .”

 

He assured her, “It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“It doesn’t feel that way.” She drew in a breath. “If I stay at the Gates of the Moon, I’ll be at Lord Robert’s mercy.”

 

“He’s your cousin. He’s devoted to you.”

 

“No,” she said back, “that’s not the way of it. He _depends_ upon me, but that isn’t the same. He acts like a greedy infant. He’s always grabbing at-” She paused and shook her head. “He throws tantrums, even after he’s gotten his way. Everyone lies to him to keep him happy. ‘Lord Robert, you are so brave. Lord Robert, you’re so strong.’ It’s terrible, and I don’t want to do that anymore.”

 

“Then don’t,” Jon replied. “Haven’t you and Albar Royce been treating him differently? Now you’re making things sound harder than they really are. Just go back there, be safe, and tell the boy that he’s being a brat whenever he acts up.”

 

“Neither you nor I know how Sweetrobin would react to a full helping of truth. Mayhaps he listens, mayhaps he sulks. . . or maybe he demands I get thrown in a dungeon.”

 

“He wouldn’t do that.”

 

“You don’t know him! You don’t know all the times he demanded that I get thrown out the Moon Door. That I _fly.”_

 

Jon asserted, “Lord Albar would never let that happen.”

 

“You don’t know how-” she curbed her statement and instead asked, “Why can’t you understand this, Jon?”

 

“I’m trying,” he insisted. “Just tell me.”

 

“Every day I’m there, I’ll have to lie to appease a spoiled brat. Every day, I would be at his mercy.”

Jon ventured, “And that would be too much like being Joffrey’s hostage?”

 

She nodded in return.

_That damned, yellow-haired family used her so carelessly. A hostage against Robb, a highborn match for their grotesque family member, a broodmare who could birth them a Lannister with a claim to Winterfell._

 

Jon Snow still worried about bringing her to White Harbor. “We don’t know what could happen. Sansa, mayhaps Ser Wylis and Lord Wyman need you for some other end. Mayhaps, they intend to ransom you for someone else. Mayhaps there’s something that neither of us can predict just waiting for you. A trap.”

 

She went quiet, and he started to mull over what he wished to say next.

 

Then, he heard Sansa’s voice, “Jon, what would Father say?”

 

_What do you mean by that?_

 

“Jon,” she said again. “If Father were here, if he faced the same decision we do, what would he say?”

 

“Is there any doubt? He’d tell you the same thing that I’ve been trying to say. He’d keep you safe. Above all else, that’s what he would do.”

 

“No, Jon.”

 

He began to shake his head, but Sansa urged him to listen. “Our father, _Lord Eddard Stark,_ would say that we all must needs do our duty. If I were you or Robb, he would send me to face whatever danger I must.”

 

_Summer and childhood one day end for all of us, Father used to say._

 

Jon persisted, “But you’re not me, and you’re not Robb.”

 

“No, I am not,” she agreed. “So, I won’t charge into a battle. But that doesn’t mean our father would want me to be a coward either. I can do this, Jon. I can convince Lord Manderly to fight for us. I _will_ do it. I want you to believe in me.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Then why are we arguing?”

 

“Because you’re my sister. . . my last sister.” _Please, gods, let me be wrong about that. Let Arya be safe and in hiding somewhere._

 

“Jon, I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Really, I do. But, you can’t protect me like this. Not when arriving as the. . .” She hesitated. “You just said it yourself, I’m your _last sister._ But, I’m. . . also your last _sibling._ That makes me the last of House Stark. The last true Stark might make all the difference between the other lords abetting Roose Bolton, and them helping us.”

 

_The last true Stark._

 

Jon pushed aside that painful thought, refusing to delve into all it implied. “What does ‘might make all the difference’ mean? What _difference?”_

 

“It’s one thing for Northmen to follow Lord Bolton out of fear, especially when that seems like their only choice. Think about it,” she prodded. “House Bolton or Stannis Baratheon: who will they side with? Lord Stannis is a foreigner in their eyes, loyal to only himself and some red-eyed sorceress.

 

“House Bolton or one of the other lords?” she went on. “Which lord could bring the others together? With all the death and betrayal across the realm - and with Lord Bolton’s reputation - which lords are going to trust each other? How can they unite at all? Rebelling against Lord Bolton and the Iron Throne. . . that’s an impossible option.”

 

Jon shook his head. “Are you trying to say it’s useless, Sansa, because I don’t believe that. I can’t.”

 

“No, not at all.”

 

She stood there for a moment. _She’s letting me stew over all her questions._ He knew that Sansa was building towards some greater assertion. It was one of the tricks of diplomacy that she’d been employing in varying measure since he was reunited with her. He held his tongue and listened.

 

“But _another option?_ And if that option is the daughter of Ned Stark? A flesh and blood Stark,” she stressed. “Which of the Northmen _won’t_ side with us?”

 

“Let _me_ go, then,” he countered. “I’ll go to White Harbor.”

 

“Jon. . .” She pursed her lips and blinked her eyes closed. “A _Snow_ is not a _Stark.”_

 

“Lord Roose Bolton or Ser Jon Snow?” she asked, looking up at him. “Mayhaps they side with you, mayhaps not.

 

_I’m not a Stark, I’ll never truly be one._

 

“Jon, brother, it’s not the same as _Roose Bolton_ against _Sansa Stark.”_

 

He shifted in place and had no response to offer.

 

“And when the Northmen see me, Jon, they’ll see our army at my back. They’ll see a ferocious direwolf padding along at my side. And. . . and, they shall see the very image of Ned Stark in the face of my knightly brother.”

 

He knew that she mentioned the last part to cushion his drop in spirits after what she’d said just prior. Nonetheless, he was glad to hear it. The mix of emotions made him feel ill at ease, so he tried to smile.

 

“And Sansa, if they look up? They’ll see a bloody dragon bearing down on them.”

 

At the same moment those words helped Jon to gather his footing in the conversation, they seemed to throw Sansa off balance.

 

“Jon, no,” she said firmly. “I know that Viserion is beyond powerful. But as much as we can, I want to spare our people from burning. We’ll go to Lord Manderly together. We will bring him to our side. And, we’ll do it without dragonsfire. With his help, other lords will support my claim - _our_ claim.”

 

She studied the expression on his face. “What are you scared of, Jon?”

 

He argued, “Don’t try to tell me that you aren’t.”

 

“I’m scared. _Of course I am._ I’m scared of being killed, like everyone is.”

 

 _Not me. I’m scared of getting you killed. I am scared of failing our father._ Jon stood stone-faced, not willing to admit his thoughts aloud.

 

“Well?” Sansa put her hands on her hips. “Fine, don’t admit it. Boys have their pride, I know that. Well, I’m afraid too.

 

“So Jon,” she posed, “you agree with me now. Don’t you?”

 

He thought about pressing the alternative of leaving her under Lady Waynwood’s protection at Ironoaks. He held back, though. While his sister’s fears were important, they weren’t the only consideration. _She can’t stay behind. Not with Bolton claiming that his son married Arya. Frightened or not, dangerous or not, I need Sansa if I want to convert the Northmen away from Bolton’s faction. Her name, her blood, and her claim are all needed for this fight._

 

“I believe you’re right,” Jon finally conceded. “Sansa, you are the rightful heir - of Winterfell and the North. Every House sworn to the Starks, save for the Karstarks and Boltons, lost family at the Twins. For that, Walder Frey is dead by my hand and by your order. That's the truth, and it should tip the opinions of any doubters to our favor."

 

She added, “It’d mean supporting the oathbreakers who murdered their king and their kin.”

 

 _“Robb,”_ he whispered to only himself. _Slain by the selfsame men who oppose us._

 

“And Jon, if Wylis Manderly or anyone else chooses to betray us. . . We shall relieve them of their heads and blanket their castles in Viserion’s flame, ser.”

 

He quirked an eyebrow at her sudden boldness.

 

“I suppose you win, Sansa,” he surrendered with a weary chuckle and then flopped down into a cushioned seat in the shadowy chamber. “You’re right, and I yield to your diplomatic skill.”

 

“Thank you. You were outmatched from the start, you know.”

 

Sansa was smiling, but she added, “Though don't mistake what I said about Viserion. I have no desire to impose _Targaryen diplomacy_ on the North. Not where we can hold back from it.”

 

Ser Jon knew better than anyone alive a dragon’s method of diplomacy.

 

“Talk to Lady Waynwood,” he instructed, forcing away thoughts of scorched flesh. “She can help you with whatever you need for the journey.”

 

“You know, _I am_ trying to become a queen. You’d be wise to phrase your council as a suggestion and not, as you did, like an order.”

 

He scoffed at that. “Even if this whole campaign succeeds, you will still be my _prim-and-proper-beyond-all-reason_ younger sister. And, I’ll still be telling you what you should do.”

 

She rolled her eyes.

 

“Not to get into a drawn out discussion-”

 

“You now know better than to try to best me on that battleground,” she quipped.

 

“Not to get into _anything_ drawn out,” he resumed with a smirk. “I suppose every ruler needs someone who isn’t afraid to force some sense into them. Otherwise-”

 

“You get Sweetrobin,” she interrupted.

 

“I was going to say, ‘The Mad King,’ or someone like that. But a spoiled brat of a lord fits too.”

 

“I hope you don’t think I’d ever turn into some _Mad Queen.”_

 

“Mayhaps not,” Jon replied, holding back his grin, “but a. . .   _spoiled brat of a queen?”_

 

“Treason!” she cried out. “I’ll have your head, ser!”

 

He chuckled and took heart in hearing her laugh along. With all the obstacles and danger before her, Jon was glad that Sansa wasn’t letting the pressure smother her.

 

“As I told you, _Your Grace,_ go talk to Lady Waynwood - and those lords waiting for you. Tell them of your decision. For my part, I think I’ll have another word with that Qartheen captain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you happen to like this story?
> 
> Do you instead think that I'm squandering a good premise?
> 
> If you want to contribute to this story or to correct its flaws, here is your chance. My brilliant beta no longer has the time to continue helping on this fic, and so I'm looking for someone new to help me out. If you're interested, send me an email at LukeColdhands at gmail dot com. _(Btw, can you believe coldhandsluke was already taken?)_
> 
> And as always, I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter in the comments. Thanks and cheers!


	63. Sansa & Jon - The Voyage North

Sansa Stark waited atop the sea-side battlements of Ironoaks Castle. The Waynwood docks didn’t have enough moorings for the Vale’s collection of fleets, so dinghies were carrying soldiers and supplies to the ships at anchor.

 

“It won’t be much longer, Your Grace,” said Lady Waynwood.

 

“I know. I watched them load Lord Redfort’s fleet yesterday.”

 

After her discussion with Jon two days ago, Sansa and the leaders of the Vale had decided that the best course was to divide their strength. They were sending six thousand soldiers up the Trident led by Horton Redfort, until they joined with Bronze Yohn. Lord Royce’s task was to trample Jaime Lannister’s meager contingent of Westerman knights, then to march up the causeway of the Neck. Meanwhile, Lord Triston Sunderland from the Three Sisters would carry Queen Sansa and the main strength of the Vale, four-and-ten thousand swords, directly to White Harbor.

 

_If all goes as we hope, I shall meet Lord Royce from the opposite side of Moat Cailin. . . with Manderly knights. Winning White Harbor to our cause is my task in this campaign._

 

Not until the following morning was the Sisterman fleet ready to set sail.

 

* * *

 

As soon as she stepped up the gangplank, Sansa discovered that a warship was an unnerving place. Despite being the pride of Breakwater Castle, Lord Godric Borrell’s vessel was cramped. It contained a full complement of oarsmen, deckhands, and soldiers. It was smelly, unsteady, and quite loud. Sansa seemed to be the only person unaccustomed to being on a ship. Even Ghost appeared steadier on his paws with the rolling, coastal waters beneath them than Sansa was. On the ship’s deck, the white direwolf leaned low, stretching his front legs as if no less at ease than he’d been on the firm ground of Ironoaks.

 

_I guess you’ve spent more time at sea than me. You were with Jon when he sailed across half the known world; all I ever did was hide in a cabin when Petyr took me away from King’s Landing._

 

“We’re going home,” she told the wolf. “If. . . if we even _have_ a home anymore.”

 

Theon Greyjoy had put Winterfell to the torch, and Sansa knew it would likely look a shell of the home she used to know. Worse, her parents were both dead. Her trueborn brothers were dead. Her sister was missing and likely dead. _It’s only me and Jon left._

 

Years earlier that would’ve sounded dreadful, but compared to three months ago, the situation felt hopeful. _At least I’m not alone, not like I thought I was._

 

“My lady?” asked Godric Borrell, trying to get her attention. “Or would _Your Grace_ be the proper style?”

 

She told him not to worry over such trivial matters, and Lord Borrell offered to show her to her cabin.

 

They followed behind two deckhands who carried her effects, which was mostly clothing. Down in the stern-castle, she found a small and dingy room that looked more like a closet than a cabin. Rather than complain, though, she thanked Lord Godric and his men.

 

“My pleasure, Your Grace,” he replied. “We’ll dip our oars within the hour.”

 

* * *

 

After her first midday meal at sea, Sansa returned to find her quarters being disturbed. “Jon, why are you putting all your belongings in _my_ cabin? There’s barely enough room for me.”

 

He chuckled and told her, “This is as roomy as you’re like to find on a warship, _Your Grace.”_

 

She watched him kicking a rucksack through the entryway.

 

“Jon?”

 

He wasn’t listening to her.

 

“Jon,” she persisted, “you can find somewhere else, can’t you? On a boat this big. . . ?”

 

“It’s a _ship,_ not a ‘boat’. We’re on the Narrow Sea, not some little pond.”

 

“Gah,” Sansa exclaimed. “What are you even saying?”

 

He smirked. “There’s three men for every cot aboard. On a ship, you sleep in shifts.”

 

“But still,” she said, annoyed. With his pack now shoved inside the cramped cabin, Jon presented her with another challenge. “What do you have in your hands?” Sansa asked.

 

“A hammer and hooks.”

 

 _“Hooks?_ Hooks for. . . ?”

 

He glanced back just long enough to roll his eyes. “For my bunk, you know, my sleeping hammock.” Jon began hammering in the first hook. “Would you rather it was one of the deckhands to share the cabin? Or even Borrell?”

 

Sansa Stark shuttered at the thought. Noble as he seemed, Lord Godric was no dashing, young suitor.

 

Jon shuffled across the cabin’s floor to the opposite wall and pulled from his pocket a second nail-hook. “Sansa, he’s got webbed fingers, you know,” Jon said, continuing to needle her. “Like a duck’s feet. I hear the trait has been in the Borrell bloodline for centuries. If you’d rather he joins you . . .  mayhaps you could breed it into _your_ bloodline.”

 

“ _Breed?_ You said, ‘breed’?!”

 

“I wager your children will make for the finest swimmers.”

 

“Enough!” Aghast, she covered her ears. “Jon, that’s enough. No, it’s too far.” Sansa waited for him to say anything else.

 

_He’s going to barge in here no matter what I say._

 

“I shall permit you to share my quarters,” she relented, ignoring her half-brother’s grinning face. “Just. . . _never_ talk about Lord Godric like that.”

 

A shivered ran down her spine, at the thought of it. _Ick._

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

Jon stood on deck waiting for dawn to break over the Narrow Sea and signal the start of the seventh day of this voyage. He kept his eyes on the grey sky above, looking for Viserion’s return.

 

_Being at sea again. . . it’s oddly comforting._

 

Ser Jon Snow recalled that the last time his family was still whole, at least in his own heart, was while he was on the Summer Sea and looking out at open waters.

 

“You keep your balance well, ser.”

 

Jon turned to find Lord Borrell venturing up from his cabin in the fore-castle. Ser Jon had been surprised when Borrell volunteered to carry him and Sansa aboard his ship, because it meant that his galley would have to host not only a direwolf, but its deck would also serve as a place for Viserion to sleep. No matter how forcefully Jon asserted that the dragon wouldn’t harm any hull or crew, no other lord put forth his name.

 

Godric said, “Many a knight has trouble finding his sea legs on his first long voyage.”

 

“This is not my first voyage, my lord.”

 

The Lord of Sweetsister chuckled as he stared at Jon. “I should have expected as much.”

 

He didn’t know what the older man meant, so he again looked out at the horizon to watch for the she-dragon.

 

“It’s remarkable how much you look like him,” stated Borrell. “Like your father, I mean.”

 

_Father._

 

Lord Godric was watching Jon’s expression. “He’s dead, just as mine own lord father is. That is the way of things, ser. Mayhaps the Lannisters took him before his time and in an ill manner,” he offered. “I don’t know if this saying is common only on the Sisters, but have you ever heard,‘The son must needs endure the dying of the father, lest the father suffer the death of the son.’ ”

 

_Or the death of a newborn daughter. I’ve tasted the bitterness of both griefs._

 

“Do you wish to hear how I met him?”

 

“My father?” Jon questioned, and Borrell nodded. “Alright,” he agreed, though he didn’t much care to hear about some feast Jon Arryn held long ago.

 

“Eddard Stark and I were both young, back then. Your father was, mayhaps, two years older than you are now, and I was only two years older than him.

 

“Aerys Targaryen had sent for the new Lord Stark’s head, as well as Robert Baratheon’s. The Mad King had no cause for his rage, though by then he rarely worried over such matters. Robert fought his way through Gulltown, as the previous Lord Grafton kept faith with the Iron Throne. Stark, meanwhile, made for the coast of the Bite, seeking passage to White Harbor. On the banks of the Vale, he found a fisherman to smuggle him into the North. But, a storm took hold of the boat and the fisherman drowned. However, his daughter saved Lord Stark and got him to Sweetsister.”

 

“I don’t know this story,” Jon conceded. “What happened next?”

 

“Stark was brought before my father, with only me and our maester in attendance. The maester beseeched my father to send Ned Stark’s corpse to the Mad King. But of course, I was a young man then and like all young men, I was impressed by bravery. I reminded my father that Robert Baratheon had led the charge over the walls of Gulltown. In awe of the Stormlord’s first victory, I asked my father if he believed that a man like Robert could be defeated in battle - even by the Iron Throne. The maester scoffed at my words and said that Rhaegar Targaryen was certain to do just that.

 

“Then Ned Stark said, ‘In this world, only winter is certain.’ My father let him leave, after Lord Eddard swore a vow to keep silent about ever setting foot on our island.”

 

The rest of the tale, Jon knew. “Then my father raised the North as swiftly as he could to join his banner with Jon Arryn and King Robert.” After a moment, he said, “I was docked in Qarth when I learned of Robert Baratheon’s death. I couldn’t have guessed that it would bring such peril.”

 

“Qarth? My, you _have_ spent time at sea, ser.”

 

“Aye, my lord. I sailed with that captain, the one who arrived at Ironoaks a prisoner and departed as a sellsail in our service.”

 

“With your salty blood, I might have expected it.”

 

 _My blood?_ Jon returned, “House Stark isn’t much for the sea, Lord Borrell, not since the death of Brandon the Shipwright.”

 

“I was speaking of your mother’s blood.”

 

_My mother?_

 

Lord Godric said, “Ned Stark got a child on that fisherman’s daughter, the one who saved him.”

 

“That’s. . . that isn’t possible, my lord. He wouldn’t have done that. My lord, she wasn’t. . . A fisherman’s daughter?”

 

“There’s no cause to look bashful, Ser Jon.”

 

“I’m not _bashful,_ ” he insisted.

 

“Those who fish the Bite are simple folk, but honest ones. They make their lives hauling their catch from the sea. It’s how you come by your name. She named you to honor Lord Arryn.”

 

_A fisherman’s daughter?_

 

Lord Borrell must have seen the disquiet on Jon’s face. “I thought. . . Ser, I thought that this story would be either a familiar one, or pleasant news. Pray forgive me, if I was wrong.” He then offered to leave Jon to his thoughts and walked away.

 

 _A fisherman’s daughter. . . better that than a whore,_ he told himself.

 

Jon was surprised to find his thoughts turning to Jeyne Westerling. _Perhaps I laid too much blame at her feet. She tended to Robb after he was struck by an arrow. She shared his bed after he learned of what Theon did to Bran and Rickon._

_If Father laid with my mother after she saved him from the sea and only days after he learned of the murders of his father and brother. . . how can I hold Jeyne at fault? She led Robb to do no worse than Father did._

 

Jon tried to assure himself that Lord Borrell’s story was nothing over which to stress, but something about it riled him. He hadn’t realized how comforted he felt by Benjen’s tale about Ashara Dayne and his father, not until Borrell disrupted it all.

 

 _Lady Dayne was all I could hope for as an explanation of my birth,_ he thought. _She loved Father, and he loved her in return. He would have married her and I would’ve been a trueborn son, except that Father needed Tully swords for any chance at saving his sister, Lyanna._

 

To Jon, it felt as if he’d been a part of Ned Stark’s quest to save his sister, because he too sacrificed for her. Ned set aside the woman he loved and Jon endured a bastard’s name, all for Lyanna Stark.

 

_Lya, Father called her Lya._

 

Lord Borrell’s version robbed Jon of that contentment.

 

_If he’s right, my mother was just some wench who sat on a lord’s cock._

_If Borrell is right, then was I conceived for any better reason than to guilt my sire into some coin? Was that the fishing girl’s intent? Was coin what Father gave her, when he came to claim me? How much was I worth to her, the fishwife who whelped me?_

 

Viserion startled him, rocking the deck as she landed upon it. After a moment, Jon walked over to her. The dragon had burnt feathers sticking out from between her teeth. He worked to pick them out and was glad for the distraction.

 

Nonetheless, the more Jon thought about what Borrell told him, the more bewildered he grew. He wondered about the timing of it all: when he would’ve been conceived, when he’d been born, and how long after did his father arrive to carry him to Winterfell. The questions were dizzying.

 

He didn’t know whom to believe, but felt inclined to trust his uncle’s account. However, Jon Snow couldn’t discern whether Benjen’s tale felt better because it was more plausible, or if it was only because he preferred it to Godric Borrell’s.

 

“Will I have to seek her out?” he asked the dragon.

 

Viserion was only concerned about the discomfort in her teeth and clawed at the stuck feathers.

 

 _I’ve been a motherless bastard for so long, what would it feel like to meet her? What would I think of her? Would she be a disappointment to me?_ Despite all he’d done in his life, Jon couldn’t stop himself from questioning, _Would I. . . would I be a disappointment to her?_

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

Sansa Stark finally regained her appetite, after enduring queasiness on the six previous days. She joined Lord Borrell for supper, and for once expected to eat a decent meal. His cabin was bigger than hers, but he shared it with his oarmaster and his second mate, who were both sons of Lord Sunderland.

 

When she entered, Sansa found Lord Godric all alone and asked him, “Isn’t Jon going to eat with us?”

 

Borrell looked up from his stew and napkined his brown and grey whiskers. “Mayhaps not, my young queen, and I fear it was most likely my doing. You see, this morning past, I shared with him a story about your lord father. It would seem that Ser Jon didn’t take it as well as I’d hoped.”

 

Sansa asked him to recount the story for her, but Borrell replied, “Better that you ask him.”

 

“Pardons my lord, but I believe that I should check on Ser Jon.”

 

“Of course,” he told her. “Please take with you two bowls of sister’s stew. Here, let me add a pinch of saffron.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa knocked as she entered their cabin. “Jon?”

 

He grunted something in reply.

 

 “Come down from there,” she said. “I brought you some sister’s stew.”

 

“You can have it,” he replied. “I have no taste for crab meat tonight.” Jon tilted his head back and drank from a wineskin as if he had a bottomless stomach.

_What did Lord Godric say to him?_

 

She placed the bowls atop her trunk and sat down on Jon’s rucksack. In silence, Sansa and Jon ate their respective suppers, stew for her and wine for him.

 

Once she had eaten her fill, Sansa set aside the bowls and straightened her blankets. Their sleeping arrangements had become a practiced routine. Jon’s bed hung only two feet above hers, but he slept with his head to one end of the cabin and Sansa always laid to the other end. Doing so gave each the illusion of privacy, which they both valued.

 

She snuffed out the lantern and settled into the pitch darkness. Sansa found herself still bothered by Jon’s cheerless demeanor. She whispered, “Do you remember the time you dressed up as a ghost in the crypts to scare me?”

 

He slurred something in reply, but Sansa didn’t catch it. _Is it the wine that’s muddling your speech, or your sour mood?_

 

“Remember?” she asked again.

 

“Aye,” he mumbled. “That day, Robb brought you and Bran and Arya down there. . . I jumped out. You ran away. Bran, he cried. He was little back then. Arya hit me for it, and Robb laughed his head off. But. . .”

 

“But what?”

 

“But. . . that was back when they weren’t corpses.”

 

_Gods, Jon._

 

His grim words kept coming. “And Father. They killed him too. Even. . . even your mother. They killed even her.”

 

Sansa began to apologize for saying anything at all, but Jon ignored her and continued, “She was so kind to. . . to you and Robb. Your mother loved you so very much.”

 

“Thank you,” she replied, but in her confusion it sounded more like a question.

 

“I have something that _I_ remember,” he said. “The night Arya was born was. . . it was my first real memory. I was six.” Curtly, he added, “You were too little then, you don’t recall it.”

 

“No,” she answered, “mayhaps not. But, I’ve heard the story - the one about how I got scared and went to Robb’s and your room - I heard it so many times that I think I created a memory of that night. I have a vision of us in my mind.”

 

He said, “We all climbed into Robb’s bed and the three of us laid somewhat like how you and I lay now. Robb and me, we promised to stay up through the birthing. _Standing watch_ is what we called it. But it was you, _you_ shook us awake to say that Lady Stark. . .” Sansa heard a tremble in his voice. “That. . . she was no longer screaming. You told us you thought you heard laughter down the hallway.

 

“In the doorway of. . . whichever room it was, I only remember the door looking twenty feet high, Father peaked out of it. He said that we had a baby sister and that he would let us see her, but must to go straight back to bed after.

 

“She. . .” Jon paused for a breath. “Father held the babe in his arms. She had dark hair and grey eyes and greeted us with a piercing wail.”

 

“Three traits Arya never grew out of,” japed Sansa.

 

Jon didn’t acknowledge the jest.

 

“When Father handed her back to your mother, I watched. Young as I was, I needed to see her reaction, if. . . if she loved the babe. And, she did. The corners of. . . of Lady Stark’s smile reached as wide as they could. Tears pouring down her cheeks. That night, I fell asleep more hopeful for the days to come than I ever had. I don’t even remember anything prior to that, but I remember well that _feeling_.”

 

Sansa rubbed her eyes on her sleeve. She missed her wild sister more than she could bear. “And Jon,” she whispered in the darkness, “Arya loved you even in her first days.”

 

He continued on, “The next day. . . I woke up Robb _the very moment_ I opened my eyes. I couldn’t wait for the new day to start. I made him lead the way to your mother’s room, and you whined about not being left out. Robb and you went in; I followed after. I watched you both hop up on the bed, and I did so too. Your mother was nursing baby Arya. She was staring down at her little face and humming to her. Robb ran a hand over the babe’s wisp of hair, and we each squeezed a foot.

 

“I smiled up at your mother when she noticed me, but that _look._ . . Lady Stark’s look of revulsion was so vicious that the sight of it could’ve drowned out any curse she could scream at me. Might be that she _did_ curse at me, but I only remember _that look._ ”

 

Sansa waited in silence, wondering if there could be any more to this story. She heard Jon turn over in his hammock, adjusting his position.

 

“A boy of six cannot understand the title of _the bastard._ Meanings of things were simpler then. I could look at Robb, and at you, and then watch Catelyn Stark with you both. In my mind, that was the whole of it. Children with auburn hair and blue eyes looked like her, and she loved them. When I saw how she held newborn Arya that first night, a child who looked so like me. . .”

 

“Oh Jon, you thought that something within her heart changed. All your hope that next morning. . .”

 

Sansa could feel her own heart breaking.

 

As if to keep it a secret from the rest of the world, Jon whispered, “And now they’re all. . . each one of them. . .”

 

“They are gone now, Jon,” she admitted. “I am so utterly sorry for how I was. Since everything went wrong for us. . .”

 

A knot in her throat made it difficult for Sansa to speak about how lacking her treatment of Jon had been for most of their lives. _Say it,_ she urged herself. _He needs this._  

 

“What I wouldn’t give for the chance to be little again, Jon, for the chance to climb onto the head table and yell to all of Winterfell about you belonging with us. If some magic could make me four or eight years old again. . . oh, what I would tell everyone. Whatever that speech would be, it ends with Mother asking for your forgiveness and some food or drink thrown in Theon’s face.”

 

She cursed to herself for mentioning _that_ name and worried at how her brother might react.

 

His bed shifted as he turned to face the wall.

 

_Arya would know what to say to Jon._

 

Sansa had spent her entire girlhood wishing that her sister was more like her. But ever since their family’s own, personal winter had descended, Sansa found herself wishing she possessed more of her wild, little sister in her.

 

_In my place, what would Arya do to comfort him?_

 

Thinking of their little sister, Sansa Stark stretched her hand up and grabbed her brother’s elbow. His arm swung loosely over the side of his rope bedding. Sitting up, she dried her eyes on his sleeve, and then briskly used it to wipe her runny nose.

 

_I miss her too, Jon._

 

He took his arm back, and Sansa thought she could sense a smile from him.

 

* * *

 

In the late morning on her sixteenth day at sea, Sansa heard someone call out.

 

“My lady! Queen Stark!”

 

A second voice hollered, “Sansa, are you in there?”

 

_Jon._

 

She opened the door to her cabin and found him and Lord Borrell smiling.

 

“We are here, Your Grace. We arrived.”

 

“Do you mean White Harbor?”

 

“Near enough,” Jon answered.

 

Borrell explained, “Patrol vessels signaled to Lord Sunderland’s flagship. They wish for us to drop anchor out here and wait for them to inspect our crew and cargo.”

 

_We’re here. I made it into the North._

 

“My lord,” she said. “I stitched something for you. For just this occasion.”

 

Sansa ducked back into the cabin and pulled out a folded-over parcel of fabric. She presented it to Lord Godric, who said, “Thank you, Queen Sansa. But no gift was necessary.”

 

 _“This_ was necessary, my lord.”

 

He unfurled the folds of white cloth, then handed a corner to Jon so they could have a full look.

 

“A wolf banner,” remarked Borrell.

 

“A direwolf, my lord,” said Jon. “The _Stark_ direwolf.”

 

The honest, but sour man began to say, “As hopeful as I am, we don’t know the reception we’ll meet. I came to you intending to share this news, though moreover to tell you to remain in your quarters.”

 

“Absolutely not!” she shot back.

 

“Just for the nonce, Your Grace. Just until we see how the patrolmen react to us.”

 

Uncharacteristically acting the calmer sibling, Jon offered, “Thank you for your prudence, my lord, but it’s too late for that type of caution. The worst that can happen is we are met with hostility. We’ll have to fight our way through them, or bring Viserion to bear, or flee into open waters. If that is our fate, all the better that we meet it under the sigil of House Stark.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa stood on the starboard side of the bow, watching the patrol ships approach. She held tight to the rail to ensure she didn’t lose her balance, as Lord Godric advised. He stood to Sansa’s right, and Jon stood to Borrell’s. Ghost paced around on her left.

 

_And Jon commanded Viserion to circle high above, ready if we have need of her._

 

When the Manderly ships got close, Godric wondered, “Do you hear that?”

 

 _Yes, yes I do._ “They’re cheering for us, my lord.”

 

Ghost raised up on his hind legs and brought his front paws onto the railing beside Sansa. The huge animal looked anxious to answer the cheers with a call of his own.

 

Instead, Jon startled both Sansa and Lord Godric by tossing his head back and howling into the salty air.

 

The Sistermen on deck must’ve been excited by the feral shout, because they echoed it with dozens of howls of their own. They kept it up even as a Manderly ship coasted up to them. Men threw lines across the gap, and they secured the ships together. The Breakwater deckhands helped the patrolmen onto the lower floating deck of their galley.

 

The first one to step down wore a blue-green surcoat with the merman of House Manderly across the chest. The man’s mustache and eyes were a silvery grey. He carried a steel trident like a walking stick.

 

“Ser Jon!” shouted the heavy-set man.

 

“Manderly?” Jon was beginning to ask when the man surprised him with an embrace.

 

“The direwolf flying from your mast,” he told Jon, “that is a welcome sight indeed, ser. When my men spotted the banner, I told them we’d find you leading this fleet.” He glanced back to his patrolmen. “Didn’t I say it?

 

“Since I last saw you, young man, you’ve become something of a hearth-side tale for highborn and smallfolk alike. Magicking yourself into an ice dragon and reaping vengeance on behalf o’ the North? No doubt that fiction draws from a grain of truth.”

 

The man’s silver-grey whiskers framed his wide smile. “I cannot convey how relieved I am to see you hale and hearty, young ser. What I had to tell you that dark day, well, a lesser knight would’ve been crushed by all you heard.”

 

Jon told him to speak no more on such matters, then clasped his arm and turned to Sansa. “Allow me the privilege of introducing my sister. . .”

 

“My lord,” she greeted him, bending into an curtsey.

 

Returning the show of respect, he slid his hand down the shaft of his trident and lowered himself to one knee. “My lady,” he began, “you are the very image of your noble mother. On behalf of my House and all of my kin, White Harbor welcomes you, Lady Sansa Stark.”

 

She felt her cheeks flush, but kept her expression still. It’d been years since the last time she saw Lord Manderly. Sansa told him, “I thank you for your loyalty, my lord. On behalf of. . . of myself and for the Lords of the Three Sisters and the Vale, I thank you.”

 

Jon lent a hand to help the lord to his feet, and Sansa took hold of his other arm. She mentioned, “You look quite well, Lord Manderly. I cannot recall how long it’s been since I’ve seen you.”

 

Ser Jon chuckled, and Manderly’s grin widened.

 

“I’m grateful for the complement, my lady. However, I believe you take me for the wrong Manderly.”

 

Jon said to her, “This is Ser Marlon, captain of the White Harbor garrison, and. . . cousin, was it? Yes, cousin of Lord Wyman.”

 

Feeling sheepish, Sansa diverted attention away from herself. “Well. . . let me present Lord Godric Borrell of Sweetsister and Breakwater Castle.”

 

As Manderly acknowledged Borrell, Jon looked anxious for the knight’s attention. “Ser Marlon,” he said a moment later. “Would you wish to see a hearth-side fable come to life?” Before he heard an answer, Jon began waving a hand above his head.

 

 _“The Father’s beard!”_ Marlon Manderly gasped when he caught sight of the flash of white scales descending toward their ship.

 

Viserion landed with a flutter of her wings. Jon Whitewolf told Manderly he was in no danger. Ser Marlon seemed to remember himself then and realized that he was clutching at Jon’s shoulder.

 

“No cause for shame, ser. I’ve seen men react far worse at the sight of my dragon.”

 

“I. . .” he stammered for a moment, before collecting himself. “Yes, aye. Thank you ser. It’s just. . . It’s a bloody dragon!”

 

Ser Jon led the old knight closer to Viserion and seemed to take pride in the man’s awe and fright.

 

“Is this. . ?”

 

“It is safe, Ser Marlon. You have my word.” Jon then guided him to touch the side of Viserion’s neck.

 

“The scales-   _hot_ to the touch,” he uttered, half a statement and half a question.

 

“Aye, ser,” he agreed. Jon Whitewolf then prodded, “Now off with you, dragon. Just keep within sight of this ship.”

 

Viserion eagerly took to the air, and Marlon Manderly gradually overcame his various stages of shock.

 

Though doing so felt small in light of the introduction Jon just offered him, Sansa said to Ser Marlon, “If you look to the biggest galley on our _windward side,_ you’ll see Lord Triston Sunderland, my Master of Ships.”

 

 _“Master of Ships,_ my lady?” he said back, though his eyes were still following the dragon in flight. “Or do you mean he’s _the admiral_ of your fleet?”

 

“Until Queen Stark’s kingdom is settled,” stated Borrell, “yes, my liege is Her Grace’s Master of Ships.”

 

Taken aback, Ser Marlon asked, “Her kingdom? _Queen_ Stark’s kingdom?”

 

“Yes,” she said on her own behalf. “The Kingdom of the North and the Trident, the one carved out by my brother and the one we’re now fighting for.” She added, “With the aid of my allies from the Vale of Arryn - my cousin’s bannermen.”

 

“But I thought. . .” he turned to Jon for moment, then back to her. “Forgive my surprise,” the knight said. “The North has need of you, as well as the lords you bring. Now more than ever. Allow me to take you to Ser Wylis Manderly, who holds White Harbor and New Castle in his lord father’s absence.” Marlon turned back to his own ship and called over, “Men, lead the way! We make for the Inner Harbor!”

 

* * *

 

Dusk was almost upon them by the hour when Sansa entered the Merman’s Court. The hall was crowded with men and ladies enjoying their suppers. Ser Marlon and Ser Jon entered shoulder-to-shoulder and went about clearing an aisle. Jon had tasked Ghost with escorting her. Though it struck her as over-protective, she didn’t argue because it would make for an impressive entrance. Lords Triston Sunderland, Godric Borrell, Alesandor Torrent, and Rolland Longthorpe as well as Sers Marwyn Belmore and Symond Templeton followed after Sansa. Each bench quieted as she and the direwolf passed. Her party was only steps away from the dais when Ser Wylis finally looked up from his meal. At the sight of them, his face went pale and he dropped his goblet into his lap.

 

“Seven hells,” he cursed, standing up and trying to wipe off the purple stain.

 

“My lord,” called Ser Marlon. “May I present Her Grace, Sansa Stark - the presumptive Queen of the North and the Trident. She arrives with allies from the Vale.”

 

Wylis bowed his head. “Pardons, it’s just that you look remarkably like. . . never mind that now. Welcome, umm, Your Grace.” He then turned to a servant and called for a feast to start immediately, one in her honor.

 

Sansa was given a seat at the head table. The attention of everyone was so sudden and so dizzying that she needed a minute to remember that there were others for her to introduce.

 

She stood back up. “My ladies, knights of White Harbor. . .” Sansa held out her hands, signaling for her allies to come forward. She named the lords first and then the two, high-ranking knights. “Waiting patiently beside Ser Marlon. . .” She beckoned, “Please, Jon.”

 

As he came out from the crowded aisle, Sansa heard gasps from Manderly lips.

 

“Ser Jon the Whitewolf, my loyal and fierce half-brother. Next to me,” she added, extending a hand to touch the direwolf’s coat, “is his equally loyal and fierce _actual_ white wolf, called Ghost.”

 

Wylis offered, “Be welcome at my table and be warmed by my hearth, Ser Jon.” The heavy and stately knight furrowed his brow and said, “You shall have to help me, my lady. How does one welcome a wolf?”

 

Jon smirked and answered for her,  “A side of roasted meat, a bowl of clean water, and a place on the floor nearby - that’ll serve for him, my lord.”

 

The evenfall feast was raucous and full of joy. The heir to White Harbor seemed to have a thousand-and-one questions for Jon, but Wylis Manderly’s daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, were excited to meet Sansa. During the meal, two bards came out to play for them. When Sansa Stark could bear it no longer, she stopped the younger Manderly mid-sentence to ask, “Do you like dancing, Lady Wylla?”

 

She nodded and tied back her dyed-green hair.

 

The girls capered together for two songs, then Wylla’s father asked Sansa for a dance. Ser Wylis proved himself surprisingly adept. Over Manderly’s shoulder, Sansa saw her new friend attempt to get Jon to join her for a turn or two. Sansa’s black-haired brother shook his head, and the maiden settled for a dance with the much older knight, Ser Templeton.

 

A guard interrupted Sansa and Ser Wylis, just as their second tune was starting. The spearman, with a face like a walrus, whispered something into Manderly’s ear. The man then pointed to a side door into the hall, where another guard stood. He had a hold of a red-faced man, whose hands were bound.

 

 _“Lannister,_ ” spat Wylis.

 

“Who?” she asked. “He’s dressed like a maester.”

 

“Yes,” replied Ser Wylis, not looking away from the man in grey robes. “He will keep for tonight,” Manderly directed the guard. “It’s the dungeons for him, set two shifts to keep watch of his cell. We’ll fit him for a noose on the morrow.”

 

“What?!” Sansa responded, more loudly than she’d meant to.

 

Manderly sent the guard on his way. He resumed their dance and began an explanation, “A Lannister by birth, we’ve kept a careful eye on him since the Young Wolf called the banners. Useful as a means to spread misinformation, my father permitted him to keep his post. At your arrival, it seems, Maester Theomore elevated his spying a step too far.”

 

 _A Lannister within White Harbor,_ Sansa worried, now noticing the maester’s yellow-gold hair.

 

“What did he do, ser?”

 

“Nothing we didn’t catch,” insisted Wylis. “It seems he tried to send ravens to the Rock, Winterfell, and King’s Landing, all bearing messages of your arrival, including ship counts and an estimate of our combined strength.”

 

She stepped away from the dance.

 

“You are safe here, my lady.”

 

_Am I?_

 

He looked in her eyes, then said, “You surely must be tired from your voyage, Your Grace. Mayhaps you’ll find another time to share a dance with this humble knight.”

 

“Another time. . . yes, I would like that, ser. As you say, I’m quite tired.”

 

He offered his arm. “Allow me to show you to your quarters.” Wylis called for Jon to join them. He told them both, “I’ve been keeping the most precious of secrets. As proven by Maester Theomore’s scheming, one cannot be too careful.”

 

Jon asked him what he meant, and Manderly hinted, “A surprise, ser. For the both of you. Please follow me.”

 

“To where?”

 

“To Wolf’s Den, Ser Jon. Oh, it’ll be _quite the surprise._ . . for you most of all.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks goes out to the readers over at DLP Forums for their help and feedback!
> 
>  
> 
> As always, GRRM owns everything related to A Song of Ice and Fire. For fun, not profit.


	64. Brynden - Ravens to Bannermen

“I hate all this waiting!” Brynden Tully said to Maester Vyman.

 

“My lord, would you like to-”

 

“Put down the letters, Vyman. Do you think I haven’t committed them to memory yet? Bronze Yohn writes about a newborn bastard. Mace Tyrell demands fealty. But what of Edmure? I do not even know who holds him. Who’s left as the bloody Lord of Casterly Rock!”

 

The Blackfish felt like throttling someone. In his last raven to the Eyrie, he’d advised Sansa Stark to march north with her levies from the Vale. _I told her that I’d guard the Riverlands in her name and I shall. But I’d rather have a campaign to press or somewhere to ride._ Sitting and waiting had never been strengths of his.

 

“Ser, what do you want me to write to the Lord Regent?”

 

“What I want, maester, is my nephew returned to me. I want my grandniece secure in her snowy fortress. I want Roose Bolton dead for murdering Cat and her son. I want the last of the Freys cast off the cliffs at Seagard or turned into corpses to be feasted upon by wolves. Tell me, Vyman, which of these desires might we accomplish with ink upon parchment?” Brynden knew he was being petulant. “Tyrell serves me threats. Hand of the King or not, he wouldn’t dare to do that if he knew about Ser Jon’s dragon, would he?”

 

Vyman had no answer to offer.

 

“I’m tempted to go to King’s Landing and hash this out myself.”

 

The maester didn’t argue against that foolishness. _He knows me too well._ “I cannot be so reckless,” Brynden admitted. “I know it as surely as you do.”

 

Vyman replied, “Now more than ever, my lord.”

 

“What do you mean by that?”

 

“House Tully, Ser Brynden. You must ensure your House’s line.”

 

“You know how difficult that would be for me.”

 

“Many a man has gotten over a lost love. A maiden all your own-”

 

Brynden waved the notion off. “Don’t tell me you’re still clinging to _that_ fable. The value of discretion aside, I know that _you_ know.”

 

Vyman nodded.

 

“Seven hells, why couldn’t the Frey-bride’s child have been Edmure’s?” Brynden sighed. “It’s time, Maester Vyman. Take this down:

 

_“I, Ser Brynden the Blackfish, Castellan of Riverrun, call upon the lords of the Riverlands to fulfill their oaths to House Tully. Ready your soldiers._

_“The Lannisters pillaged our lands. They forced you onto bended knee. I say to you, now is the time to stand back up._

_“The Iron Throne has taken hostages from many of you. I know you fear what will happen if you defy our enemies. But know this, House Lannister cannot be trusted with your sons and daughters. You promised submission, and they swore that no harm shall come to the hostages you turned over, so long as you keep your promise. Keeping your word to a Lannister does nothing to ensure they honor their oaths to you._

_“Sansa Stark was once a captive of the highest birth. They thought nothing of beating her. She was only a girl then, one-and-ten years of age. She was supposed to become their queen. If they thought nothing of ordering knights of the Kingsguard to beat her, how do you expect they shall treat your kin? There was only one violation they did not cross, but that was because they wanted their queen a maiden before her wedding night. How long, though, until they rape the daughters you entrusted to them? How many beatings will your sons endure before it forever changes them?_

_“My lords, I swear to you that my grandniece was indeed changed by the mailed fists of the Lannister Kingsguard. She was hardened by it. May your kin react with such strength. Sansa Stark hardened into the daughter of Ned Stark, the grand-daughter of Hoster Tully, and the Young Wolf’s heir. She is now Sansa Stark, Queen of the North and the Trident._

_“With an army of her cousin’s bannermen, Lord Robert Arryn’s Valemen, Her Grace took back Riverrun from Emmon Frey and Castle Darry from Amerei Lannister. Both of whom were once subjects sworn to House Tully. Both became oathbreakers in service to House Lannister._

_“Should any of you fear breaking the oaths you made at sword-point, recall now that you made those oaths to House Baratheon. Your pledges were to the line of King Robert. I tell you all, none of Cersei Lannister’s children were born of the king’s seed. Jon Arryn knew this and was murdered. Ned Stark learned it and was executed on false charges. A man need only look upon Tommen the False Stag to see the truth of this. His doubly Lannister parentage shows through. Not one Baratheon feature the boy has, because he has not a drop of King Robert’s blood._

_“Who among the riverlords made an oath to Joffrey Waters or Tommen Waters? For, neither Joffrey Baratheon nor Tommen Baratheon ever existed. An oath made to a boy who was never born is no oath at all._

_“Should any of House Tully’s bannermen still harbor doubt about which course to take, know this:_

_“Queen Sansa Stark has command of a dragon. Her half-brother, Ser Jon Whitewolf - known to all Tully bannermen as the squire who saved Lord Edmure, scaled the Giant’s Lance to capture a creature of Old Valyria. Through him, the dragon heeds our queen’s word. The garrison of Castle Darry can bear witness to what they watched circle above their walls. Ride to where the Twins once stood, before the dragon reduced Walder Frey’s castles to melted rock and scorched ground._

_“Be ready for my next raven, my lords. Riverrun may soon call upon you to keep to your true allegiances._

_“Signed,_

_Brynden Tully, Warden of the Southern Marches and Hand of the Queen._

_“Long live the Queen of the Trident.”_

 

Brynden knew what Vyman would say before the old maester opened his mouth. Still, that didn’t prevent him from saying it. “Ser, you cannot send this as written. Surely, at least one of the lords will send your orders onward with a raven to King’s Landing.”

 

“Let them,” he shot back. “Better yet, see that you have enough ink to pen one extra letter.”

 

“For Lord Tyrell?”

 

“For Lord Tyrell,” he snarled. The Blackfish stared Vyman down. But Brynden broke first, cracking a sour grin. “I _know_ we can’t send that. We cannot rile the Tyrells and Lannisters into war until the North is back in Stark hands. I’m not so daring. . . nor so lunatical.”

 

“It sounded valiant nonetheless, Bryn.”

 

“That it did, Vyman.” He then asked, “When Edmure surrendered to the Kingslayer, did you ever expect to see Riverrun back in Tully hands?”

 

“Not in mine own lifetime, my lord. But considering your long history of being nigh impossible to kill, I expected you might.”

 

Ser Brynden flattened out the parchment Riverlands atop Hoster’s old desk. Everything north of Fairmarket had disappeared into scrolled oblivion. He ran his hand toward the edge of the table, laying out Hag’s Mire and Seagard and the Cape of Eagles, but stopped there. _No need to look at castles burned from existence._

 

Tully thought aloud, “Little threat stands west of Wayfarer’s Rest.”

 

“Only the Golden Tooth.”

 

He arched his brow at Vyman.

 

The maester answered, “But I take your meaning: The Westerlands exhausted their strength.”

 

“Most of it,” he acknowledged. “But if Edmure had only done as told, we could have extinguished _all_ of it.”

 

“Ser, that is something I’ve wondered for a long while now. Why didn’t you tell him? Why not explain to Lord Edmure the whole plan? If the Young Wolf meant to trap Lord Tywin west of the Red Fork, surround the Westermen somewhere in the hills, trap the Mountain That Rides-”

 

He waved off the rest of Maester Vyman’s unnecessary details. Tully answered, “Before Robb Stark’s direwolf discovered the trail around the Golden Tooth, we couldn’t have trampled Stafford Lannister’s unprepared host at Oxcross. Without our victory at Oxcross, it would’ve been impossible to envision all we planned. Our mounted army could outrun one host chasing us, but if not for Oxcross, we would’ve had _two_ hosts of Westermen giving chase  - and converging from opposite directions, no less.”

 

“So you, my lord, didn’t have the strategy in mind when you departed Riverrun,” said Vyman. “But what about after the Battle at Oxcross?”

 

“We had caged ravens with us,” Brynden replied, “but all the castles we’d skirted around, they sat ready to shoot down any birds loosed for Riverrun. Sarsfield, Ashemark, the Golden Tooth. . .”

 

Brynden let out a sigh. “Mayhaps I came down too hard upon Edmure.” _Still. . . if only he’d just stayed his bloody arse where he was supposed to._

 

“To tell it true,” the Blackfish explained, “not one of us thought _Lord Gold Shitter_ so impatient. Drawn out from Harrenhal, a straight westward march is, of course, the fastest route. But we thought Tywin would. . .” Brynden found Harrenhal on the map. He traced a finger southwest, around Tumbler’s Falls and the Blackwater tributaries near the Stoney Sept, and avoiding the Red Fork entirely.

 

“Deep Den,” he said, jabbing his finger where Tywin should have gone. “Seat of his bannerman, Lord Lydden, and right _fucking_ atop the _fucking_ Gold Road.

 

“It was so bloody perfect,” the Blackfish lamented. “Lannister never comes within two hundred bloody miles of Riverrun. Why chance to march past Riverrun or Pinkmaiden? Why risk an ambush from our garrison or from Piper knights? Why try to ford the Red Fork at all? For what? Four - mayhaps five - fewer days on the march. Instead, he hazards all on a forced march due west. Tywin couldn’t spare _five days_ for the safer route?”

 

He asked Vyman, “Can’t you see? Tywin Lannister could resupply at Deep Den or Lord Brax’s castle at Hornvale, take the Gold Road into the heart of the West, then turn northward and take us _unawares_ on our flank.” He looked the old maester in the eye. “Why should Robb risk the entire war on the wings of a raven? No, there was no reason to alert Edmure when our snare was primed without my nephew’s participation. . . or interference.”

 

_But Edmure’s head proved too soft, and Robb’s cock less so. They both made a bloody mess of a brilliant campaign._

 

“To no avail, Edmure bloodies Tywin’s lip. Thus the lion never chases his tail, and the ambush we would’ve led the Westermen into never happens. After hearing all that, what advice have you, oh wizen maester?”

 

Vyman ignored the question and asked, “Does Lady Cat’s daughter truly have a dragon in her arsenal?”

 

Brynden’s laugh was hoarse and grim. He answered, “You would cut to the heart of it, wouldn’t you? Yes. Her natural brother, my _somber squire_ , caught the dragon from atop the Eyrie. The lad thereupon mounted the beast and rode it down the mountain. It has obeyed him ever since.

 

“Ser Jon is Sansa’s loyal sword, and the dragon is his. Would that I understood it, but it’s true nevertheless.”

 

Maester Vyman was poised to ask more questions, but Brynden was in no mood to indulge him. Instead, he told the maester to take down this new message, “Beginning after. . . _Castellan of Riverrun:_

_“. . . have taken back Riverrun for House Tully. I do not wish for this to be seen as a move against the Iron Throne. It was an act of justice against the Freys, nothing more._

_“My lords, I know that some of you handed over sons or daughters as hostages to King Tommen. I do not wish to place your kin in peril._

_“With defiance stirring in the Stormlands and Lord Stannis Baratheon in the far north for unknown ends, I call upon every riverlord to be vigilant. It was Queen Cersei who tasked Lord Commander Jaime Lannister with crafting peace in the Riverlands. We must needs remember with whom our allegiance Lies._

_“Our Queen is now free. The day will come that she may call upon us to fulfill the oaths we first made to her elder Brother. Keep that in the forefront of your thoughts as you brace for Winter.”_

 

He let the maester scour and rewrite several phrases to improve the letter’s brevity and punch. Vyman replaced the original valediction with, _“May the Seven bless King Tommen’s reign.”_

 

 _“Long live the Queen of the Trident,_ read better,” Tully maintained. “At least use, _‘May the Seven bless our sovereign’s reign.’ ”_

 

The maester wrote it in, then Brynden requested, “Scribe a duplicate of our toothless missive for every castle sworn to Riverrun. But alas, send no threats to the boy on the Iron Throne, nor to his flowery nursemaids.”

 

* * *

 

As requested, Utherydes Wayn led Genna Lannister into Hoster’s meeting room above the main hall of Riverrun. Brynden offered her a seat and poured her a robust glass of wine.

 

“Ser,” she said, accepting it.

 

“Lady Lannister,” he acknowledged. “I assume word of Ser Kevan is not news to you.”

 

“My last brother is lost to me. Kevan was ever following after Tywin, why not also into the grave.” She stared at him and questioned, “Is that why you brought me here? To gloat over my dead kin? Perhaps you mean to tell me of your cunning in doing the deed.”

 

“Not my work, nor the work of any ally of mine - as far as my knowledge reaches. No, Lady Genna, I didn’t ask you here to talk on your kin. It’s your husband’s House I mean to speak of.”

 

“Lord Emmon’s been confined to the same tower chamber in which your steward found me. If it’s Freys you hope to discuss, best that you send for him.”

 

Brynden shook his head and told her, “Lord Frey is dead. Executed justly on account of his murders. As was all but a few of your husband’s kin.”

 

She looked at him strangely.

 

“On my honor, I have it from the most trustworthy of sources.”

 

“Why tell me?”

 

“Because I believe there’s something too distinctly _Frey_ about any man hearing of the death of his family from someone who’d so relish the telling of it. As I, no doubt, would.”

 

“Who is dead?” she asked.

 

“Easier that I say who’s left,” he returned. “Ser Andar Royce went to some trouble to catalogue the whereabouts of the Freys. As far as the Freys of the Crossing knew, _your_ Freys still live, my lady. Your two grandsons, one in Ashemark and the other at Lannisport.”

 

“Ty and Willem.”

 

“Those boys yet live, my lady.” He added, “Your son, Ser Lyonel, is still in his good-father’s castle guard, Lord Crakehall I believe.”

 

She didn’t thank him for the news, instead saying, “You may spare yourself the breath on my eldest son and my third, Cleos and Tion. I know of their demise.”

 

The first was a name unfamiliar to Ser Brynden, but he knew well what happened to Tion Frey. _Lord Karstark’s wroth over the Kingslayer’s escape._ Brynden recalled the sight of the dead squires laid before the dais in Riverrun’s main hall. Both were naked and freshly washed, more akin to meat carried to a butchery than the boys they’d been the night before. Tully had never learned which corpse belonged to which name, so he couldn’t say if Genna’s son had been the one to die first, peacefully in his sleep, or the other who clawed against his murderers.

 

“Robb Stark took Lord Karstark’s head with his own hands.”

 

“Should I thank him?” She glared at Brynden for several moments, then questioned, “What of my youngest son?”

 

Tully asked for his name.

 

“Red Walder, they call him.”

 

He scanned Ser Andar’s ledger. “ _Red_ Walder. . . squiring in the Westerlands. That’s all I know.” The Blackfish then disclosed the rest of the Freys for her husband’s benefit. Some were in the North, fighting for Roose Bolton. Several others, wrote Andar, were at Seagard.

 

“And the rest?” wondered Lady Genna.

 

He shook his head.

 

“That is all that remains? _Of House Frey,_ ” she said, incredulous.

 

“The women were sent to serve as septas and some of the boys to the Night’s Watch, but those who continue to take up arms are like to die before year’s end.”

 

“How?”

 

He informed her of Ser Jon’s dragon and the armies at Yohn Royce’s disposal. Brynden Tully expected that she would require convincing, but Genna Lannister said only, “These days, why not? When you and I have gone to dust, I wonder what the generations who follow shall call our age. The Age of Deceit? The Reign of the Stags, or mayhaps _their folly._ ”

 

“My niece will decide that as much as anyone,” said Brynden. _Queen of the North and the Trident._

 

“More than _mine_ has?” she quipped in retort.

 

“When you’re right, Lady Genna, you are certainly so. Bedding her brother? Earning an arrest by the High Septon?”

 

“No one can say with certainty whether Stannis Baratheon’s claims about Myrcella and Tommen are true. But. . . how did Cersei ever allow that old sparrow to take her captive?” chided Genna. “Mayhaps she chose poorly for the Kingsguard, but the Most Devout would still be hard pressed to overpower Ser Balon Swann, Meryn Trant, and the rest, if only she had tasked them more shrewdly.”

 

“You’ll hear no argument from me,” he replied. “And, there are the darkest things spoken of her most recent addition, Ser Robert Strong.”

 

“Whatever his past, he won Cersei her freedom.” Genna raised her glass to Brynden. “See that you convince your niece of what I failed to instill in mine. Do not match wits with Tyrion Lannister,” she stated, then took a sip. “When Queen Cersei should have been _listening_ to her brother, she was orchestrating an ill-conceived charge of kingslaying against him. And after that sham of a trial, I don’t for an instant believe he murdered Tywin and neither should you. Your northern niece could do far worse in her marriage, than my nephew.”

 

Brynden narrowed his eyes.

 

“Truly,” she insisted, then threw a glance at the door. _Her own husband, Emmon Frey._ “But don’t take offense, Ser Brynden Tully. I know you _would never stand for it,_ if your _precious and perfect_ niece remained wedded to my _imp_ nephew.

 

“Wherever he fled,” Genna said with a sigh, “Lord Tyrion will one day return - most like with a sellsword army to claim his birthright. He was Hand of the King and also Master of Coin. He held King’s Landing when others fled from battle. Since the Dawn Age, few have ever accomplished so much.”

 

She looked at him quizzically. “You know, were the affairs of the realm not so utterly mucked to the seven hells, I’m beyond certain that you would get on splendidly with Tyrion. _Truly.”_

 

Genna Lannister downed the rest of her glass, then got to her feet. She took a long breath and said, “Better that I’m the one to pass along the tidings to Emm.”

 

She spared a look at the flagon.

 

“Take it,” he told her. “And, I’ll have Wayn find for him some sourleaf.”

 

She nodded her thanks. “Ser.”

 

He returned, “My lady.”

 

* * *

 

The replies he received from Blackwood and Bracken were quite the opposite of what Ser Brynden expected. Though Jonos Bracken had been quicker to bend the knee to Tywin Lannister and besieged Raventree Hall in King Tommen’s name, his message was wrought with words of bluster and battle. In response to the more subtle wording of Brynden’s second version, Bracken still wrote that he was all too eager to take up arms against the Iron Throne once more, saying, “So long as I get to smash my broadsword into some Lannister skulls, war will suit me like a worn, old saddle.”

 

Lord Blackwood, the last to holdout for Robb Stark, insisted in his raven that he couldn’t yet lend help to Riverrun, regardless of Ser Brynden’s aims.

 

The Blackfish looked to Maester Vyman and asked what he made of their ravens.

 

“Ser, if you rode to Stone Hedge you would no longer recognize the castle. Jonos Bracken has good cause for his anger, as everything of his that could burn was put to the torch by Ser Gregor Clegane. The Mountain even raped one of Lord Bracken’s daughters.

 

“Lord Tytos, conversely, has an intact castle to protect. One of his sons died at the Twins and another died of an illness during the Bracken siege. He must be scared of losing a third son, the one who was taken as a hostage by Ser Jaime Lannister.” He pointed out, “I do not know if Lord Jonos was required to make a similar show of loyalty.”

 

Clement Piper’s reply focused solely on his nephew. Having lost both his sons years ago, Patrek Piper was his uncle’s heir. “Lord Clement writes, ‘The Kingslayer ordered the Freys to return Ser Patrek to me, yet I have neither my nephew nor his bones.’ ”

 

The Blackfish told Vyman to send word to Castle Darry to see if Ser Andar or his father knew the whereabouts of the young man. “Any other replies, maester?”

 

“No, my lord. Maidenpool remains under the thumb of Tarly men, though Lord Randyll left for King’s Landing some time ago. I didn’t send a bird to Seagard, considering Lord Mallister threw down his banners to Black Walder Frey to spare his son from a noose.”

 

“And the rest?”

 

“The Wode Brothers and all their kin died at the hands of the Mountain and his men.”

 

Brynden stated, “And House Vypren was extinguished at the hands of Ser Jon and Bronze Yohn.”

 

“Lord Deddings and his children. . .” Vyman trailed off, shaking his head. After a brief silence, he resumed, “The other riverlords. . . I do not know, ser. Neither of the Vances wrote back, but I expect they will eventually. Harrenhal has changed hands, it seems, with every new moon. Whent, Slynt, Baelish. . .”

 

The Blackfish asked if they’d received ravens from Lords Lychester or Roote, and Maester Vyman said they hadn’t yet.

 

Brynden returned to an earlier issue, “You said it was _the Kingslayer_ who took Blackwood’s boy?”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“From what we know, Jaime Lannister lingers in the Riverlands. Near Pennytree and Sallydance, no?” He didn’t wait for an answer and asked, “How long might it take to muster enough men to ambush the Kingslayer’s small host? Jonos seems eager enough, and Lord Tytos will likely join with us after we tell him of our intent.”

 

“And what would that be, my lord?”

 

The Blackfish grinned. “To rescue the Blackwood boy and capture the Kingslayer, if we can. Then to orchestrate some ploy to kill Black Walder, without yielding Jason Mallister to a noose.” _Yes, an ambush along the Blue Fork and an infiltration over the walls of Seagard. Now this, this is what I was brought into this world to do._

 

Brynden Tully pushed aside the ravens’ scrolls and unfurled the map of the Riverlands. “See?” he said. “Pennytree and Sallydance. . . If the Kingslayer’s anywhere nearby, Stone Hedge is to the northeast, Blackwood Vale to the southeast, and then there’s Riverrun and Lord Lychester’s castle to the west. With any timing at all, the four of us can have Lannister corralled.

 

“Oh, I like this, Vyman. Have the stables shoe every horse in the castle and tell Wayn to see to some provisions from our siege-stores. Send another raven to Castle Lychester, but nowhere else. Be vague, in case the bird is shot down, but clear enough that a river-man would understand that I’m coming to him. We can send word to Stone Hedge and Raventree from there.”

 

“Ser?”

 

“Vyman, I’ll ride out with the men as soon as we’re able.” The old knight felt almost giddy. The plan seemed both reckless and brilliant. “Lay out some fresh rushes in the dungeons. I take it you’ll know which cell.”

 

“As you wish, ser.”


	65. Sansa & Jon - In the Wolf's Den

Ser Wylis Manderly led Sansa, her brother, and his direwolf from the feast to a nearby chamber. Sansa saw that it was a map-room with the North and the Reach painted on opposite, plastered walls.

 

Now out of earshot of everyone else, Manderly asked, “Your Grace and Ser Jon, to what extent should I trust the Valemen?”

 

“What do you mean?” Jon wondered aloud.

 

Sansa spoke up, “You ask if they’re trustworthy? These are the lords and knights whose swords and ships brought me back to the North. They are the comrades-in-arms of the Valemen who lost their lives fighting alongside my brother at Twins and with my uncle at Riverrun. Many of them will yet lose their lives when we take back Winterfell. They are my loyal and invaluable allies, ser.” For a moment, self-doubt made her question that bit of boldness; the grin on Jon’s face put that to rest.

 

Manderly said he understood. He walked across the Myrish rug and pressed a hand just to the left of a seam in the painted plaster. A door made up to look like a panel of the wall swung open.

 

“What is this?” Jon demanded.

 

Wylis sparked a torch and replied, “Trust me, ser. Allow me to give you and Her Grace this gift.”

 

Sansa touched Jon on the shoulder, and he reached his hand across his swordbelt. She thought, _I want to trust you Ser Wylis, but we’re not going a step further without knowing more._

 

“Before I follow you into whatever secret chamber you would lead me,” she began, “I must have an oath. Your solemn oath of fealty, on behalf of your father and all your kin.”

 

“My oath?” he questioned.

 

“Was I not clear?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at Jon.

 

“Quite clear,” Ser Jon replied. He stepped out in front of her and moved his hand from his belt to the hilt of his longsword. Sansa watched Ghost take up an aggressive posture on her other side.

 

To Manderly, she said, “My knightly brother has the right of it. What is waiting for us in that passageway? Why the secrecy?”

 

“Forgive my caution, Queen Sansa. Before my lord father left for Winterfell, I took an oath to never speak aloud - even under threat of death - what I am going to show you. My lord father faces danger and worse from Roose Bolton. My reticence will all seem unnecessary on the morrow. But should the worst come true, I won’t have the last words I told my father become a broken oath.” Wylis cleared his throat. “Before the old gods and the new, on the lives of my daughters, I pledge that we Manderlys are Stark men. Now and always.”

 

The fur on Ghost’s back went down, and Jon’s sword arm relaxed.

 

Wylis went first into the secret passage. Jon followed next. Ghost waited for Sansa to enter and trailed behind her. Inside, she found a set of stairs. At the base of the steps, they continued into a dank tunnel, walking single-file. It dead-ended at a black, stone wall. Wylis pulled its handle, and this one shifted just like the secret exit of the map-room. They passed through cellars, which smelled of mildew and seawater.

 

“Just up there,” directed Manderly. He instructed Jon to leave his longsword in its scabbard and to keep a tight rein of the direwolf. Then to Sansa, he said, “Push open the iron door at the top of these stairs.”

 

“What will we find up there?” she asked.

 

“You’ll find the godswood and all you came for, Queen Sansa.”

 

* * *

 

The fort encircling the godswood was in disrepair and looked to have been that way for centuries. The black holdfast was ancient, cold, and deserted. The weirwood’s branches had forced their way outward, crashing through the windows and walls of the structure surrounding it. The barely habitable keep appeared no more able to hold out the elements than the godswood was, beneath the night sky.

 

Sansa Stark let go of her brother’s arm. His apprehension was easily recognized. She shared it, but reminded herself that though Ser Wylis had been cryptic, if he wished to harm them he could’ve done so already.

 

A modest hut had been constructed beneath the heart tree and on the frost-covered ground. It resembled a four foot tall mound, since dirt had been piled up and over it. She could smell a fire burning and the flickering light told her it was just on the other side of the hut.

 

“Who’s there?” a voice called out in the darkness.

 

She and Jon looked at each other. Sansa said back, “Who are you? I was led here without preface.” Continuing, they came to the front of the hut. Sitting beside a fire, Sansa saw a woman. This woman was older than her by ten years and looked rugged and unkempt.

 

_The hand she’s keeping behind her back might be gripping a knife._

 

A rustle inside told Sansa that the woman wasn’t alone.

 

The figure got to her feet while keeping her weapon concealed, if indeed she carried one. “Don’t you step no closer, you. You got no business here. Best go back to the castle proper.”

 

Sansa tensed, but slipped her hands together, joining her sleeves in a pious-looking position. She forced herself not to look away.

 

An indistinguishable shout came from within the hut.

 

She saw a child fall out the entrance. _Barely old enough to walk, by the look of it._ The child dusted himself or herself off and stared at Sansa and Jon.

 

“Back inside, chipmunk.”

 

A second woman came out, ready to take the child in hand. Her face was only shadows behind the glow of the fire. The light was bright enough to silhouette her hair and her frame, but not enough to fill in her features.

 

Jon grabbed Sansa’s arm. His fingers dug in, and it terrified her. He fell to his knees, never taking his eyes off the woman.

 

She reacted to him, as well. After standing deathly still, the figure ran forward all at once. At them. At Jon.

 

The unknown woman tripped on the hem of her dress, and Jon sprang to catch her. He collected his knees beneath him, and she conformed to his embrace.

 

_Is that. . ? After all this time. . ._

 

They pressed close, their cheeks pushing together as they whispered in each other’s ears. Sansa couldn’t distinguish their words; she wasn’t sure what they uttered to each other _were_ words. Jon ran a hand down the woman’s back, and his fingers gripped into her, as if to convince his mind that he wasn’t imagining her. Her hands were in his hair and on the back of his neck, clutching him and pulling him flush against her. Whispers turned to tears, which then became kisses, and finally tearful laughter.

 

Lady Lydrea stood up. She pulled Jon to his feet, but did not let go of either of his hands.

 

Sansa walked over and kissed her tear-soaked cheek. “Sister,” she greeted.

 

Lydrea took a moment to recognize Sansa. She then hugged her and said, “I am so gladdened to see you alive and free, Sansa.” Stepping back to Jon, she said, “I have someone here who has been dying to meet you, ever since we heard you were alright.” She bent down. “Come here, my little one. Don’t be frightened.”

 

_It’s Jon who looks frightened. He looks terrified._

 

“Jon, go closer. Have a look in the light of the fire.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

Jon crouched on one knee and let the girl walk the rest of the way to him. He didn’t want to scare her. He could barely keep from shaking.

 

_She’s walking. How old would that make her? How much have I missed?_

 

He reached out and took her hand. “Not too close to the fire,” Jon told her softly.

 

The tiny girl looked up at her mother, who nodded and urged her on.

 

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

 

The child nodded.

 

Jon didn’t take back his hand. She had wrapped her fingers around his thumb. He was prepared to remain in that state for the entire night, just letting her soft hand hold his.

 

“Halya, you give your father a hug.” _Your father._ The firmness of Lydrea’s voice pushed the girl to come closer. No longer able to hang back, Jon swooped her into his arms. He didn’t know how he was supposed to hold a child so young, but she didn’t try to squirm away.

 

With her fingers spread wide, she patted Jon’s beard with the palm of her hand. “Scratchy.”

 

He heard Lydrea and Sansa laugh and struggled to contain his emotions. “Yes it is, _my girl_. Can you tell me your name? Is it ‘Hala’? Lydrea, can she say it?”

 

“Halya. Hal-ya.”

 

_Halya._

 

“Do you know my name? Can you say, ‘Papa?’ ”

 

“Jun. . . Jun.”

 

“That’s what your mother calls me. But you can call me, Papa.”

 

“Jun. Wickwul say Jun.”

 

“What?” He looked up at Lydrea for an explanation.

 

Drawing their attention was a huge black direwolf, two hands taller than Ghost. He tilted his head back and howled.

 

The girl slipped from Jon’s arms, and before he could get up off his knees, ran to the wolf. When it lowered its nose to sniff her, she brazenly hopped up to touch its mouth.

 

“Shh! Shh!” the child commanded. It didn’t bite or growl, only flicked her out of the way, and then ran into the darkness of the godswood.

 

Ghost sprinted away from Sansa to follow the other direwolf.

 

A hand landed on Jon’s shoulder. “That’s his wolf, Jon. That was Rickon’s wolf. But. . . Lydrea, how did you find it?”

 

“You don’t know? Wylis didn’t. . . ? That’s what Halya calls him- Osha, would you . . . ?”

 

A few seconds later, a boy stepped out of the hut. Little Halya ran to him. She took his hand and pointed at her father. “Jun!”

 

* * *

 

The hut was framed with split and smoothed logs. Sealskin leather, black with a wrinkled texture, had been layered over the walls and served as a door flap. Outside, several inches of packed dirt covered the shelter. Together, it did well to keep in the warmth. The hut was cramped, but Jon was happy for the closeness. His foot tapped uncontrollably, and he was quietly excited like he’d never been before.

 

Before letting the fire outside die, Lydrea shoveled out the glowing coals and dropped them into a half-covered iron bucket. It served as a brazier inside the hut. Jon worried about Halya and the red-hot embers, but Lydrea assured him that she would be fine.

 

Its glow provided just enough light for Jon to watch everyone settle into their sleeping arrangements.  Rickon and his wildling protector, Osha, slept side-by-side at one end. Jon and Lydrea curled up on the other. When Lydrea had suggested as much, Sansa looked ready to argue about propriety, but rolled her eyes and held her tongue.

 

_It is not that I would bed her in close quarters with others, of course. But how could I not insist upon wrapping my arms around her? I can still barely believe she is alive and here with me._

 

Ghost and Shaggydog had returned from their reunion in the moonlit godswood. The two wolves slept next to each other, just outside the hut.

 

Jon watched his daughter and his sister curl up in the pelts in the center. Halya hadn’t taken to him in their first hours together, and he did his best to not be dismayed by that. Conversely, she was enamored with Sansa from the start - specifically Sansa’s hair. Long and deep auburn, Halya couldn’t help herself at the sight of it.

 

Now laid down to sleep, Sansa continued to whisper to her little niece. After some quiet giggles, she draped her hair over the girl’s face. Halya hummed an off-rhythm tune and pretended to brush the red hair as if it were her own.

 

In his arms, Lydrea dipped her shoulder and whispered in Jon’s ear, “Give her time. She’s had little interaction with men. She’ll warm to you.” She gave his cheek a kiss, then asked, “But isn’t she wonderful?”

 

Jon hushed, “Aye. The most wonderful thing I’ve ever seen.”

 

“Alright children, time for quiet.” In a sing-song rhythm, Lydrea said, “The sun’s gone _to bed_ and the stars’ve come out, _overhead._ Gone is the _fire-light,_ and now to say _our goodnight._ To Halya. . . ”

 

“An’ Wickwul.”

 

“And Osha,” Rickon continued.

 

“And Shaggy!” the children shouted together.

 

Lydrea added, “And for every night from now on, we’ll say, ‘And Sansa, and Jon.’”

 

* * *

 

When he awoke, the others were already up. Lydrea, though, hadn’t left his arms.

 

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” she asked as she wriggled closer.

 

“No. Everyone else?”

 

“Rickon wakes early, which means Halya does too. Osha rises at around the same time. Your sister didn’t have a say in the matter, however, because our little one came back in to fetch her.”

 

“And you stayed abed?”

 

“Aye, good ser.”

 

A flush of excitement flowed over him at her words and her presence. She chuckled at him. “I can _feel_ what you’re thinking, Jon, but everyone else is just outside. We can’t, not yet. Don’t get up, though. Just. . . just stay like this sometime longer.”

 

“Yes, my lady.”

 

An hour or so later, they could put off the day no longer.

 

Outside the hut, Jon found his sister and his daughter sitting on a log together. Sansa saw him and gave the girl a soft nudge. She looked around until her eyes stopped on Jon. Halya got to her feet and ran to face him. After a glance back at Sansa and a nod of encouragement, little Halya produced a grey rock from behind her back. She gave it to her father with a smile, before sprinting back to Sansa.

 

Jon caught his sister’s eyes. _Thank you._

 

He turned the stone over in his hand. It was about the size of Halya’s fist, but looked small lying in his callused palm. Jon had no idea what prompted the gift or why she’d chosen the quite plain-looking stone. But it was a treasure, nonetheless. The first sign of affection from his little girl.

 

Lydrea came up from behind and surprised him with an embrace. “See, she’s warming to you already.” He held up the rock, and she shrugged. “She’s not yet two. Who knows exactly why she does what she does. Think of it for what it is, a good first step.”

 

He heard Sansa ask, “Jon, would you bring a piece of your armor over here? One that Halya will be able to see her face in?”

 

He went to the corner of the hut, where he’d taken off his armor the night before. Jon dusted off his shining, steel back-plate and brought it out to her.

 

With his little girl in her lap, Sansa beckoned him close. “Ok, Halya. Let us show your father how clever you are. What color is my hair?”

 

“Red.” Halya smiled, clearly proud of her first answer.

 

“And my eyes? What color are my eyes?” Sansa leaned in to give the girl a close look. Halya seemed to be playing along and enjoying herself. Jon guessed that they’d practiced this.

 

She struggled to form the word, but said, “Blue.”

 

“Have a look at your father’s armor. See? That’s you. Can you tell me what color _your_ eyes are?”

 

Jon knelt, and Halya grinned at her reflection. The curve of the plate distorted the shape of her face, but she waved at herself and then looked close. Confused for a moment, Halya turned back to Sansa. “Blue?”

 

“No, my darling. That’s _grey._ Can you say, ‘Grey?’ Try it.”

 

“Grey,” she stated firmly.

 

“Good. Have a look at your father’s eyes. You get yours from him.” Jon brushed back his hair and gave his daughter the chance to step close. She put one hand on his cheek and the other on the bridge of his nose and pulled him towards her.

 

She laughed and shouted, “Grey!” Halya then sprinted away from both of them.

 

“Jon, I don’t think she yet grasps what _father_ means, but she’s learning.”

 

He was glad that his daughter had felt comfortable enough to be so close. To him, that was another step toward feeling like a real father.

 

“Grey!”

 

Jon and Sansa turned to see Halya with her finger on the bark of a leafless shrub.

 

“Yes,” he told her. “That is grey.”

 

She laughed again and ran across the packed-down snow. Jon loved the sound of her and couldn’t help smiling at the determined and clumsy way she swung her arms as she moved.

 

“Halya, stop!” Sansa ordered, but the girl crashed into the sleeping, black direwolf all the same.

 

Shaggydog growled, but Halya disregarded it and buried her fingers in his fur. He began to get up, but she growled at him until he laid back down. Jon was amazed at both the daring of his not-yet-two year old girl and at how the huge animal actually complied.

 

With her face still up against the wolf’s coat, she yelled back, “Grey!”

 

Sansa smiled at her and said, “No, that is _black._ The fur is _black_.”

 

“Grey?”

 

Jon shushed his sister. “Sure, Halya. _Grey._ ”

 

She stepped back from Shaggydog and looked at Ghost. Halya didn’t run to him, like she had his litter-mate. She pointed and asked, “Grey?”

 

Jon and Sansa chuckled, and Halya ran back to them.

 

He pulled the rock she’d given him from his pocket and held it out to her. She stumbled over to Jon and pointed to the stone with her entire hand. “Grey!”

 

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa was thankful that her good-sister allowed her to spend the day with her niece. Lydrea and Jon walked off together, certain to have plenty to discuss.

 

Halya had exhibited an initial nervousness with Jon, but at Sansa’s prodding, seemed to be coming around in her regard for her father.

 

The girl, though, had no such hesitation with her aunt. By mid-day on their first day together, Halya was showing genuine affection for Sansa. Conversely, Sansa had needed even less time to feel consumed by the love she felt for little Halya.

 

The girl knew nothing of the pain that the world could inflict. She was innocent and adventurous and eager to share her happiness. Laughter seemed to be her life’s goal, both for herself and for the people around her. Sansa had forgotten that the world could be so simple and kind.

 

Rickon was his own unique challenge. Sansa could barely bring herself to look at him, for all that he reminded her of Robb. The boy didn’t show any joy at seeing her, and Sansa was forced to conclude that he didn’t remember her.

 

She decided to change all that.

 

Sansa finished braiding Halya’s hair. “Now, little pup, how about we go find Uncle Rickon?” She gave the girl a tickle. “Rickon?”

 

“Wickwul?” the girl asked excitedly.

 

“Yes.”

 

Her niece hopped off her lap and called, “Shaggy!”

 

The direwolf came bounding over and nearly knocked Halya down with his snout. She only laughed and gave his ear a tug, earning a nip in reply. Seeing the huge wolf show any aggression at the child worried Sansa, but Halya didn’t seem bothered in the least.

 

“Wickwul,” she told him.

 

The wolf led further into the godswood. Sansa picked up the girl, and they followed the direwolf and the sets of footprints in the packed snow.

 

After a short walk, Sansa heard voices. Shaggydog continued on, but she waited, listening.

 

“. . . but why then?” asked a woman.

 

 _“Just because,_ alright?!” Rickon sounded upset, but after a moment’s wait, he explained, “Because, well, she looks just like. . . _her.”_

 

“Like who? You can say it,” the woman told him, knowingly.

 

“Like mother, _alright?_ That’s who. And Mother left and didn’t care and didn’t ever come back for me. So I don’t care ‘bout her. Or some dumb girl who looks like her.”

 

“And what about your brother?”

 

“Jon? Ly says he and Father look like the same. I don’t remember them and _I don’t_ miss them. But if Ly’s happy. . . he can stay.

 

“Shaggy?!” the boy suddenly shouted. “I told you to guard Halya.”

 

The woman laughed. _Osha_ , Sansa remembered. “And who was he guarding your cousin from? That other wolf?”

 

“No! From _her!_ I see how much she likes Halya. She acts like she’s hers. But she’s ours _-not hers!_ What if she leaves and she tries to take Halya too? I say, ‘No.’ She won’t. _I won’t let her.”_

 

The direwolf let out a sharp bark and, startled, Halya made a sound.

 

“Who’s there?!” Rickon shouted.

 

Sansa came out from among the snow-covered brush. Osha was leaning against a dead tree. In her hands, she was casually sharpening a knife. Rickon sat on a rotting stump.

 

At the sight of him, Halya patted Sansa’s shoulder. “Down-please-down.” The moment her feet hit the snow, she scrambled up to sit next to her uncle. He put an arm around her possessively.

 

“You’re spying,” he accused.

 

“No, Rickon. We only went looking for you, but I did hear what you said.”

 

He glared at her and his direwolf stepped in front of him, blocking Sansa’s path to her little brother and her niece. Unaware of the building tension, Halya leaned out to touch his tail. Without breaking his stare at Sansa, Rickon pulled her back.

 

“Do you truly think I mean to steal her away?”

 

He continued his defiant glare and nodded.

 

“I promise that I don’t,” Sansa assured him. “I promise that all I want is for my family to be together and to be safe. If we can, I want to go back to Winterfell, back to our home.”

 

“Winterfell isn’t my home. And it’s not Halya’s home, or Ly’s, or Osha’s.”

 

“It is not their homes, you’re right about that much. But, Winterfell is _your_ home, Rickon Stark. And mine. You were born there, as was your father and his father before him.”

 

“If it was your home, why did you leave?” The boy snarled the question. “Why never come back?”

 

“I had to leave, just as you did,” Sansa answered calmly. “I wasn’t so much older than you when I had to. Back then, I thought that the place where I was going would be filled with songs and festive balls, and dancing. I was just a child and thought like one.

 

“The day may come when I’ll have to leave again. I’ll not lie to you on that. But, you have my solemn word that I’ll never wish you, or our Halya, any harm. Ever.”

 

He turned to look at his wildling caretaker for validation and suddenly appeared as the boy of six that he truly was, not some ornery creature of the forest.

 

“No need t’ fear her, Rickwyle.”

 

“I’m not afraid!”

 

Osha smirked at him. “Oh? In that case, do you need to set a wolf t’ guard against her?”

 

Rickon relaxed. Sansa took a seat on the trunk of the fallen tree, beside Rickon’s stump.

 

“Little brother,” she began, “what of Bran, our other brother? Where is he?”

 

The boy checked for Osha’s opinion and only answered after she nodded at him. “Bran and Hodor and Jojen and Meera went north.”

 

“To Uncle Benjen?”

 

“Who?”

 

Osha answered, “Benjen Stark, Lord Crow on the Wall. No, they was going north o’ the Wall. Looking for someone calls hisself, the Three-Eyed Crow. But not the Watch, some other crow.”

 

Confused, Sansa looked to Rickon, who said only, “Aye.”

 

“Did Bran say when he’d be returning? How long he’d take? Where he’ll meet you?”

 

Osha sighed. “I cannot say. They’s things beyond the Wall that you’d ne’er believe exist. If the boy does find hisself some old magic, he’ll send word. Mayhaps in a dream. Before he left, he was having _green dreams_. That’s what the Reed boy called ‘em. We had us other names for it in the North. Whatever you calls it, your Bran Stark could see in his dreams. He saw the Greyjoy boy take the castle ‘fore it happened. He knew your father dead, ‘fore the raven arrived. Rickon saw that one too, I remember.”

 

_That cannot be, such things are impossible._

 

“Doubt me if you like, milady. But, don’t be too surprised when you learn I’m right.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

“There’s a surprise waiting for you, my lady. One I brought with the ships.”

 

“A surprise?”

 

Ser Jon nodded. Uncharacteristically impatient, Lydrea shook him and caught Jon off guard.

 

“Alright, alright,” he said, laughing. “It’s your horse. I brought Drifts with me.” She threw her arms around him, and Jon embraced his happy wife.

 

“I couldn’t know if ever I’d see him again,” she said, stepping back.

 

“I have waited to ask about that. How did you survive your attack? What happened?”

 

“Attack?” she wondered.

 

Jon watched her expression. “The one where you were hurt. Drifts returned to our holdfast covered in blood, or at least that’s what Gariss said.”

 

She thought for a moment, before piecing everything together. She told Jon about the deer hides they collected in order to fashion the skin boats and cross to Skagos.

 

“But why leave our holdfast without saying a word?” he asked. _Why leave without some message in case I came home to you?_

 

Her expression became dark. “Because whom would I need to tell? My husband was lost at sea, drowned or killed by pirates. Uncle Halys and Daryn and Lady Donella were dead. I didn’t think of my natural cousin, Larence Snow, until after I left. But, he barely knew me and was too young to come looking.

 

“Rickon and Osha came to me. I trusted her because I could see straight off how protective she was of your brother. And. . . how could I not try to help Rickon? I left without telling anyone so if Ramsay Snow or ironmen came searching for me or for Rickon, there was no way for them to learn where we went. Right or wrong, that’s what I did.”

 

“For all that it’s worth so late,” Jon said, “I’m sorry for not being with you. For not protecting you.”

 

“I don’t blame you. You never meant any of this to happen. It wasn’t your fault.”

 

He wanted desperately to believe her, but the sorrow in her eyes made him think otherwise. Still, he didn’t mention his doubts.

 

Shifting their conversation, Lydrea said, “Wylis spoke of maddening stories he heard about the Twins and the Freys of the Crossing. What. . . what really happened, Jon?”

 

“A dragon.”

 

“A real one? A _real_ dragon?”

 

“Aye, my lady. A flesh-and-blood, dragon. _Flesh-and-fire._ ” He told her about finding Viserion in the deserted Eyrie, though he left out mention of the help he received on the climb. “I set my dragon on the Freys and took the castle with Yohn Royce’s men. Nothing remains.” Jon confessed to her, “In my hatred, I had it burned to the ground. Not even the bridge still stands.” 

 

Quietly, she whispered, “What are the Hornwood words, Jon?”

 

“Righteous. . . _Righteous In Wrath._ ”

 

Lydrea nodded. “I want. . . the same done to the Dreadfort. I want the Boltons dead. I want Ramsay dead most of all. For what he did to Aunt Donella first, but that’s not all he did, I’m sure of it.”

 

“What else?” Jon was uncertain about whether he wished to know the answer.

 

“Men sworn to my uncle have been following the Bolton bastard. Good men, Jon. _Not a one_ would take what Ramsay did as a right and true wedding. He must have. . . something happened, Jon. I refuse to think they’d turn their cloaks for nothing.”

 

Jon saw tears running down her cheeks. He stepped closer, but she put up her hands and backed away.

 

“He must have kidnapped their children or something equally vile for the masters of the keeps and villages along the Broken Branch to fight for _that beast._ Those men were loyal to my family for as long as the Hornwoods have been loyal to the Starks.” She asked again, “Can you do it? Will you burn the Bolton castle?”

 

“For you, of course. I’ll burn it into nothingness. I will do it also for Lady Donella, and for Robb.”

 

“But where is this dragon?”

 

“Viserion is her name. She isn’t far. . .” _What can I admit to Lydrea about the dragon?_ He said simply, “I left her to sleep off a bellyful of fatty seal meat. I didn’t wish to frighten Ser Wylis or his people. Last night when I found you, Halya, and Rickon, I thought not frightening you was all the more reason for Viserion to keep her distance.”

 

“I don’t know the word for it or even if one exists, but. . .” Lydrea furrowed her brow. “Are you a warg, just one for dragons?”

 

_A warg?_

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“A warg, Jon. Someone who can inhabit the mind of a wolf. Like Rickon does with Shaggy, but instead with a dragon.”

 

Jon was speechless. He’d never spoken of his bond with Viserion, or with Ghost, in such fashion. He knew enough of what people might think to keep silent on the matter.

 

She stared at him. “Have you forgotten that the blood of the First Men flows in my veins as much as yours? While the children of Winterfell must’ve heard tales of the old Kings of Winter, I was told stories of the First Men and the Children of the Forest. Where do you think we all learned of the old gods?”

 

He could hear the frustration in her tone.

 

“From _the Children_ , Jon. The powers of the weirwoods came from the same magic as that of the Children of the Forest: the magic of the woods, mountains, and swamps.

 

“My uncle thought highly of your father, you know that. But, he never agreed with Lord Stark’s beliefs. Uncle Halys took little seriously in his outlook, and Lord Stark took nearly everything so. Halys, though, believed in the old gods and respected signs from them and the ancient legends. Your father never did.”

 

“Wait, no,” Jon said. “My father kept the old ways and the old gods. You’re wrong about him.”

 

“Am I?” Lydrea challenged. “The day after we wed, your brother told me of how he found the direwolf pups. Their mother lay dead from a stag’s antler. Robb made it into a joke about a moose antler and the Hornwood sigil. Your father smiled and told him not to tease his good-sister. Lord Eddard never thought anything of it!”

 

Defensive, he argued back, “So what? What should he have done? _Killed the pups?_ What would you’ve had him do?”

 

“Remember the old gods! Robert Baratheon was riding to Winterfell, and your father didn’t make the slightest connection! He should have asked the king not to come. He should have done whatever he had to, to keep his family away from the stags. The first direwolf seen south of the Wall in the-gods-know how many generations, and it’s dead because of an antler through its throat. What are the odds, Jon? What are the chances of that not being meaningful?

 

“And yet, your father gets Bran crippled by admitting a party bearing the crowned stag into Winterfell. He swears Sansa’s hand to that Lannister abomination calling himself a Baratheon.”

 

She was crying and shouting, and Jon had never seen her show such pain.

 

“He killed Sansa’s pup with his own hand! Oh, he was kind enough to send its corpse back to be buried in Winterfell, but damn his blindness!”

 

Lydrea put her hand on Jon’s arm and began to calm down. “If anyone butchered Shaggy. . . I don’t know what I’d do, Jon. He belongs to Rickon, yes, but Rickon is my child now as much as Halya is.” Her voice trailed off and she stepped away.

 

With her back to him, Lydrea said, “That should have been enough, Jon. Her direwolf. . . Lord Eddard should’ve seen that as final proof that Starks had no place with the Baratheons. Your father needed to return home with Sansa and Arya. He needed to break off the betrothal for that. _He killed her wolf,_ Jon.”

 

He ached to defend his father’s memory, but didn’t know what to say.

 

She continued on, “If he just came back to the North after that. . . Think of how much would be different. There were so very, many reasons for him to turn around on the road or to leave King’s Landing once he got there. If he had. . . Daryn and Robb, Uncle Halys and Lord Eddard himself, Aunt Donella and Lady Stark, my cousin Wendel and your sister Arya, they’d all be with us now. I’m sorry if it hurts you to hear this. But, I can’t help blaming him, Jon. You asked if I faulted you, and I told you the truth. I don’t blame you for any of it.”

 

_You blame my father._

 

Jon almost wished that she lay the fault with him.

 

“I’m sorry that all came bursting out,” she said, looking away. “We were speaking of other things, important things.”

 

He replied, “Aye, the dragon.”

 

“No, not the dragon,” she admonished. _“The bond.”_

 

“You called me a warg. Do you think I’m some demon from a cradle-fable?”

 

Lydrea’s eyes met his. “I hope you are, Jon. You. . . you don’t know what it’s like to be vulnerable, like I’ve been. To feel threatened. In war-time, most of all. You have your sword and your training. Even if I trained for the rest of my life, most any man would still be stronger.”

 

“I should’ve been there to protect you.”

 

Frustrated, she said, “That is not what I am speaking of, Jon. I’m not a man or some burly, Mormont she-bear. So with you gone, I’ve learned you use a bow. When you first left, I practiced as I had with Daryn whilst growing up - like it was a game. And then, I thought you died at sea. Practiced everyday from that day on, specifically so I could protect myself and, if ever it should come to it, to protect the child I carried. Later, I trained to protect my good-brother. I’ll put an arrowpoint through the eye of any man who dares to harm us. Let him wear steel or leather, visor or half-helm. I’ve prepared for him. . . hoping it would be enough.

 

“Thank the gods for the Crowl chief, and that it never came to any of that. If it did, Jon, all that would save me or your daughter from being killed or carried off would be my arrows, Osha’s knife, and my little good-brother the warg.”

 

Jon didn’t know how to respond, and Lydrea was reading his expression. “Believe me that Rickon is one and, from what Osha said, so’s Bran. I only hope that Halya takes after your family in that. If she ever shows the first sign of it, I mean to give her a wolf. Back at Deepdown, I had a mountain dog from the clan’s pack picked out as a mate. She was large and dark-coated. I planned to give my daughter a half-direwolf, half-dog protector.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lydrea protested. “You haven’t seen how she is with Rickon and his wolf. That boy is as watchful of her as any elder brother could be. Every little girl can use a big brother looking out for her. Sansa had you and Robb, I had Daryn. Our Halya has her cousin. Well, _uncle,_ I suppose. But can you imagine a better pet for her than Shaggy? A fiercely loyal wolf who is thrice the size of a hound and warged by a protective, big brother?”

 

Jon smiled. “Ghost has been much the same with Sansa. So, that’s what it is? Being a warg?”

 

“A warg is one who can live in the skin of a wolf. Osha calls the others, ‘skin-changers.’ She says they exist in many types. Dogs, birds, even shadow cats.”

 

“Even dragons.”

 

“Aye, ser. Even dragons.” She asked, “Will the dragon still lay waste to the Boltons?”

 

“Yes.”

 

 _But she burned children in their beds._ Jon had been wary of employing Viserion in battle since then, but knew he would have to fight through his fears. “You said that Ramsay might’ve taken the families of your uncle’s men as hostages. Rather than sending Viserion straight at the Dreadfort, we’ll need to consult Ser Wylis about a strategy.” _But when it’s time, we will do it. Viserion and I will bring down a righteous wrath upon House Bolton._

 

Lydrea took his hand.

 

“So,” she said, “you would consent to giving our girl a wolf pup if she shows herself able to control one?”

 

Jon’s heart lifted a little as he realized that she was consulting him about what to do, in regard to Halya. _I’m the girl’s father._

 

He said, “I don’t think I showed any sign of being a _warg_ or a _skin-changer_ when I was Rickon’s age. I can remember that Bran didn’t. I have to think that we only became that way, or realized what we could do, _after_ Robb found the direwolf litter. There might not be any way to find out if Halya _takes after my family in this,_ besides giving her one. Mayhaps, you can find a breeding dog in the Manderly kennels.”

 

“We shall talk to Wylis.” She smiled at him. “Until then, no more talk of war or worry. Let us go find Halya and Rickon. Osha prefers to indulge them, and she’d not stop the children from visiting some mischief upon Lady Sansa.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Lydrea led the children through their bedtime rhymes and then came back out to sit with Jon by the fire.

 

“You’re so good with them,” he told her, poking a stick at the coals.

 

She smiled. “Not always. Of the two of us, Osha has always left it to me to discipline them.” Lydrea grasped Jon’s chin. “I have a feeling you’ll be much the same, if how you look at Halya is anything to go on.”

 

“I like the name you chose, _Halya_. It sounds kind-hearted. For your uncle, I assume?”

 

She sighed and said, “Aye, for Uncle Halys. I didn’t have a name picked out when she was born. Too much happened too fast. Your brother called the banners, I was still mourning you, just too many things. She was five weeks old when Gariss came back from Winterfell with news of the war. Uncle Halys died at the Green Fork, the first battle of the war. I decided then what I wanted to name her.”

 

Lydrea took a deep breath.

 

He stopped her, “We don’t have to talk about this, if you would prefer not to.”

 

“No, no. We should, even if it’s far from easy.”

 

Jon put his arm around her and she continued, “I worried for my Daryn and for your Robb. They were both so young and too bold, in my thinking. But Uncle Halys. . . It never occurred to me that he could fall. Stupid, I know. After my parents. . . after you. . . I still never spared it a second thought, losing him.

 

“I miss him. I cannot begin to explain how much. And watching our girl grow into her personality, it’s as if his spirit is guiding her.”

 

He kissed the top of her head and waited for her to resume.

 

“You and I are so alike, Jon. You have your lone streak, and I as well. Our reserved nature. . . I see none of us in her, not yet. Instead, I see _him_. Undiluted and without reservation. Thinking of her taking after the namesake she’ll never meet. . . I didn’t know my heart could feel so full of happiness or feel so sad, least of all at the same time.

 

“Some nights, if I cannot sleep, I’ll lay awake and pretend that the war never happened. That I’m home in my uncle’s castle for a visit. I imagine him with her, Jon. . . He showed me such care, raising his dower niece. I imagine that I’m waiting to fall asleep after a day of watching Halys and Halya together. He was a loving uncle, but Jon, he’d have been a superb grand-uncle. He. . . I think of him as the most joyful grandfather the North ever saw.

 

“He and Daryn were always close, but my cousin was also his mother’s son. He could be prim and mannerly in a way that my uncle never was. Halya, though well-behaved most of the time, is never reserved like Lady Donella or like either of us, Jon.

 

“She’s a knee-high Halys Hornwood in a braid.” Lydrea stopped for a breath. “I picture him teaching her all the tricks and jokes he used to undertake as a boy, the ones Aunt Donella stopped him from teaching Daryn. I’d let him, though. He’d have full reign with her. They would barrel through the kitchens and the keep, first her running after him, then him after her. I pretend to fret for the welfare of his lands, with his daily tasks forgotten throughout Halya’s visits.”

 

“The first time I saw him,” Jon said, recalling Lord Hornwood, “he had an arm around my father and was trying to draw a laugh from him. _No easy task._ When I came to ask for your hand, he was both trying to make me laugh and trying to scare me half-way to the seven hells, all at the same time.”

 

Lydrea let out a laugh, quiet and heavy. “As much as I miss him, I’d trade my girlhood spent with my uncle to give Halya just a handful of days with him, and him with her. It’s the most unfair thing I, I cannot fathom how . . .” Her wavering voice turned to sniffles. “Even on the nights where all my imagining turns into dreams of them together, I still have to wake up to a world where they never got to meet.

 

“It’s not fair,” she said, falling apart in his arms. “I lost my mother, my father. . . Jon, do you remember that first day we spent in the Winterfell godswood? Our first day together?”

 

“Yes, of course I do.”

 

“Well, I said something then. I think of it all the time. Up until now it was just something I wished that I could un-say. I try to avoid thinking about it, but I regret it so much.”

 

“Whatever it is. . .” he coaxed.

 

“I told you that no uncle can replace a father. I was wrong. Uncle Halys was better than any father could ever be. When I try to picture my own father. . . Just remember that I take back what I said back. Okay?”

 

“Of course.” He ran a hand through her hair, then said, “What keeps running through my mind about our girl? It’s Arya.”

 

“Oh, Jon. I didn’t even think of that.”

 

“It’s alright,” he assured. “Perhaps someday I’ll find her. But, I think of her and how she’d be with Halya.”

 

Lydrea smiled beneath her tears. “They’d get into all manner of adventures in Winterfell. Rickon too. The pair of them trailing after Arya Underfoot.”

 

Jon told her, “Seeing Halya today, she reminds me most of Bran. She’d enjoy Arya, no doubt, but her easy smiles and playfulness are more like my brother than my sister. And I wonder what she would be like with him. As he. . . _once was,_ I mean. Most like, she’d try to climb the castle walls and the towers right along with him. Maester Luwin would be setting her broken arm one moon’s turn, and she’d be trying to climb with it the next.

 

“And with my father,” Ser Jon went on. “He was serious and more like you and I, than like her. But he was a good father, all the same.”

 

“I know he was,” Lydrea acknowledged.

 

Jon pulled her closer. “Though he never encouraged it, Father always looked upon the trouble-making of me and Robb with a certain. . . quiet joy. It’s hard to explain.”

 

“Not so hard to imagine, though,” his wife replied. “I think you’ll be much like him as a father.”

 

_I can only hope._

 

“After everything that’s happened, Lydrea. . . I thought I’d lost her. And you too. I thought I missed my chance to know. . . But instead, I have her and you, and Sansa and Rickon. I don’t know, it’s just. . .”

 

She stood up. “Your family shall be here for you in the morning. You’ll have all the time you need to think of how you wish to say such things. For now?” She pulled him to his feet. “Time for bed, husband.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go out to dozens of people who have helped this story along with feedback and recommendations. Thanks so much.


	66. Jon, Sansa, & Osha - Merman's Court

Jon awoke before anyone else in their hut the next morning. He thought of remaining where he was, with his wife wrapped in his arms, until he looked over at his daughter. She slept next to her aunt, Sansa’s auburn hair mingling with Halya’s light brown strands on the cushion they shared. Jon crept over and slipped his hands beneath his daughter’s arms. She barely stirred as he picked her up. Sansa’s eyes opened just long enough to see him, then she smiled and turned over.

Outside in the brisk morning air, he tossed her lightly in his arms, and she leaned her chin on his shoulder. In her sleep, her hand brushed away the hair from her face and stopped on Jon’s cheek.

The decision to lift her from her bed was impulsive and now that he had her, Jon wasn’t sure what to do with the small girl. He paced in the yellow-white glow of the sun emerging for the day. Shaggydog looked up from his sleeping spot, outside of the hut. His bright green eyes followed Jon’s every step, but the direwolf made neither a sound nor a move.

Jon thought of how he’d never expected to have a moment like this. A moment alone with the daughter he thought lost to him. _My little girl._ She felt so small and fragile in his arms, but she felt real. _And alive._

Jon had trouble thinking of Halya without also remembering Arya. _I still have hope, little sister. One day, you may well return home, or perhaps I’ll get word of where to find you. One day. . ._

He lost himself into thoughts of Winterfell. Memories of play and simpler days flooded him.

The stirring of the bundle in his arms brought Ser Jon back to the present. “Good morrow, little one.”

 

She looked surprised to awake in his arms, but not displeased by it. She made a little squeal as she swiped her hair out of her face.

Jon chuckled at her. “Here, let me help you.” She struggled against his grasp. “Alright, alright, Halya. I’ll set you down.”

Jon seated himself on the log near the fire pit and placed Halya on her feet in front of him. She let herself fall to the snowy ground and just sat there.

“Pfft!” She shook her head and pushed her hair out of her face again.

“Here,” Jon said, reaching for her. He laughed when she squirmed. “Stay still for a moment and let me turn you around.” Jon lifted his daughter just high enough to make her face away from him and set her back down. “I’ve not braided hair before, but I’ll give it my best.” He began gathering the edges of her hair and she settled down.

“Your father spent a good long time on a ship, Halya. He’s tied and braided rope many a time and doesn’t think this’ll be so different. He knows a plaid called the Lysene’s Head.” Jon smirked. “Let us see if it’ll suffice for this head of yours. Sailors use it to braid a rope around something, like a railing or make-shift cleat, and it’s done with a single length of line. But, if. . .”

Jon saw that his first attempt would be futile, so he loosened her braid and began again. The Lysene’s Head was really a plaid of two strands, composed of the same rope doubled back, and then woven into once again, creating an overlapping, four-stranded braid. He began with two lengths of Halya’s hair and added new collections as he went, in place of the overlapped rope, until the braid was complete.

“How do I. . ?” Jon looked about for something to use as a ribbon. “I suppose your father should’ve thought of that.”

Halya reached up and felt from the top of her head, down to the end of hair. “Not ‘ike mum.”

Jon smiled at her sour tone. “You’re right, not like how your mother does it. I’m sure of that. But, see? This is a secure braid. Secure? No? You probably don’t understand that word yet. Well, this braid is tight, my girl. It’ll not come loose, if I can just find something to tie it back. Just try it out for today.”

Halya fidgeted, ready to undo the whole thing.

“Oh my!” Jon heard a voice exclaim from behind his back. “What a beautiful braid! Halya, turn around for me. Let me tie a bow before it comes loose.”

The child ran past Jon to show Sansa her hair. She spun around, all reluctance forgotten.

“Did your father do this for you?” Sansa asked the girl. “Yes? Well, _my lady,_ I wish I could arrange a braid like that. You better thank him for such a good job.”

Gleefully, she sprinted back to Jon, her arms waving at her sides. Halya giggled and spun again, showing off to her father.

Jon looked up. _Thank you, my lady sister._

“Halya, I want to show you a game,” he told her. Jon found two, straight sticks and snapped them in half. He stuck one in the snow several paces from the fire pit and brought the other three over to Sansa and his daughter. “You see that stick in the snow? The game is for each of us to toss our sticks at that one and the closest wins. Understand?”

Sansa was familiar with the game, he knew. Jon couldn’t recall if this was something that he’d been taught or just a game that he and Robb had once thought of.

_Theon,_ he remembered. _This was Theon’s game._

Before he could think more on Greyjoy’s transformation from his brother’s friend to his other brothers’ murderer, Sansa threw her stick.

_He didn’t kill them in the end. I didn’t think Theon capable of hurting Bran, and he never did._

Taking her aunt’s lead, Halya threw her stick too. It was well short of the target, but Jon guessed that she was throwing for where Sansa’s stick landed anyway. He tossed his, and it very nearly hit the mark.

“Now go get the sticks, Halya,” Sansa encouraged. “Hurry, hurry!” Smiling, the girl chased them down. “And Jon’s too. No! Not the target, just the three, that we - yes. Now bring them back. Hurry, hurry!”

After Jon and Sansa’s following tries, Halya threw hers as far as she could and began her sprint before it landed. She grabbed them all and ran two circles around the target before coming back. Halya ran into Sansa’s arms.

“You’ll make yourself dizzy and sick if you do that,” she told the girl.

A short while later, Osha, Rickon, and Lydrea arose. Halya greeted her young uncle and their wildling guardian.

“Now that we’re all up,” Sansa began, “Jon, would you get a fire started?”

He nodded to her and started clumping twigs together, atop last night's ashes. Lydrea brought him some dry straw from the hut.

“She let me hold her this morning,” he whispered to his wife.

Lydrea nudged her shoulder into him. “What did I mention about her warming to you?”

His daughter was slowly becoming accustomed to him, Jon could see that. Though it irked him to feel this way, he was slightly jealous of Sansa’s immediate bond with her. “I’m happy to see how she is with my sister. Halya adores her, and I can see the pleasure it brings them both. . .”

“It’s just that you wish it was you whom she adored?” Lydrea guessed. “Well, you should watch her with Rickon. _That_ can be infuriating, let me tell you. I’ll insist on this or that and Halya will be on the verge of following my instructions, and Rickon will give her a smirk or a whisper. Suddenly, my words become no more than wind, as do my rules.”

She continued, “Halya means well, Jon. But even the best children are not easy creatures, as you are like to discover for yourself. Regardless, I wager that Lord Stark had no easy time with you and your brother those long years ago. With Sansa? Might be, he did. Mayhaps this is a small justice for her to have so easy a time with Halya, and for you to meet some challenge.”

Jon threw an arm around Lydrea’s neck and tussled with her from their place on the log. She playfully swatted at him. “Jon!” she pleaded. “Jon, you win! You win.”

A stern voice called from over his shoulder. “Ser Jon!” He let go of his wife and glanced up to find Sansa standing over him with her arms folded across her chest. Halya and Rickon were next to her, watching. “Hardly fitting behavior for a knight.”

“Ooo,” mocked Lydrea. She swooped up their daughter and said, “Looks like your father’s in trouble, Halya.” She handed Rickon a canvas pouch. “Rickwyle, why don’t you help your brother with the fire, in my stead. Mayhaps you’ll be keep an eye on him, lest he misbehave further.”

Rickon eyed Jon carefully as Lydrea and Sansa walked away.

“She’s only japing, you know,” he informed the boy.

“I’m not stupid.”

His little brother unwrapped the pouch, spilling out the flint and striker. Rickon snapped a stick into twigs and dropped them on a small pile. After poorly preparing, Rickon too quickly tried to get a fire started. He hit the finger-length, iron striker against the flint stone, but the sparks failed to catch. He struck the flint harder and faster after each failure.

Jon waited for the boy’s attempts to run their course. Once Rickon threw down the tools in frustration, Ser Jon held up a branch. “Do you see this bark? When trying to get a fire alight on a cold, cold day, you must consider the bark.”

Rather than turn his attention, Rickon began snapping another stick. Jon took the twig from him. “This bark,” he said, gesturing. “It’s dark and thick and coarse. It’ll be no easy thing to make the flame take to it.” He loosed his dagger and peeled away the bark. Jon handed over his knife, hilt first. “Can you skin off the bark without cutting yourself?”

Rickon nodded and accepted the dagger.

“Now this bark,” said Jon. He raised a different branch. Eyeing his baby brother, Jon stopped him. “Wait. You can only see one thing at a time. When you look away from any blade in your hands, cease whatever you’re doing with it. Good.” He started over, “See this bark? It’s thin and lighter in color. I can begin to peel it from the wood with only my fingers. This bark will help, not hurt, the fire. See the difference?”

Rickon stared at him, skeptical. The boy challenged, “You think you know everything.”

“What I know about building a fire, I learned from our father.”

The auburn-haired boy set down his stick and put both hands around the knife’s handle, as if holding a greatsword. Jon told him, “I learned it on hunts into the Wolfswood. Father’s duties meant that it wasn’t often he left Winterfell, but when we did venture out, Father taught us things like this.”

_“Us?_ Was I there?”

“No, little brother,” he said gently. “I meant us, as in me and Robb.”

“I didn’t go?”

“You weren’t old enough yet. When we went into the Wolfswood, it was usually just me, Father, Robb, Hullen, Jory Cassel, and Theon.”

_“Theon,”_ the boy growled. He turned over the knife and stabbed the dirt.

“Did he hurt you? Or Bran?”

Rickon’s young face contorted with malice. He didn’t answer Jon’s question; the boy only stared at the knife in his hands.

“Rickon?”

The boy blinked away whatever thought he’d been lost in. “No, I guess. But. . . Theon killed Mikken and showed off to his men. They hurt Palla and others, I think. Sometimes I have to ask Osha about parts I forget.”

“Osha was in Winterfell?”

Rickon rolled his eyes. “Yes, a’course.”

Jon wondered when, precisely, Osha became Rickon Stark’s caretaker. He was about to ask, but remembered, _He’s seen only five namedays. Like as not it seems to him that the wildling has been with him all his life._

“You look like him,” Jon offered. “Like our older brother, Robb. He was less than a year my elder, but I might as well have been as much the younger brother to him as you are to me, most of the time. Growing up, he was the leader of the two of us.”

“He was a king.”

Jon nodded. “I suppose he was. Robb Stark, King in the North. He was born to lead men. Even as children, we knew he’d be Lord of Winterfell.” _Though, we expected him to rule as an old man, with grey in his hair and children of his own. We never thought Father would die so soon. . . or Robb so young._

“Other times,” Jon told Rickon, “we were more like twins, experiencing things together. And in other instances still, I was the leader of the pair of us.”

“You were?”

“Don’t look so doubtful, little brother. Robb was better with a lance, but I had the better head for numbers and was, mayhaps, the better sword.” _Much to Lady Stark’s disappointment. As if the bastard had no business besting her son in anything._ Looking at Rickon’s blue eyes, Jon was reminded of Catelyn Stark’s glares. “You look like your mother too, Rickon. The last time I saw you, you were a fierce and toddling little boy at your mother’s side.”

Rickon picked up the stick with his left hand and carelessly chopped at the bark. “She’s dead now.”

_You might not mourn her,_ Jon reminded himself. _But never forget that they do, your brother and your sister._ He swallowed. “She loved you, little brother. Never doubt that.”

Rickon dropped the stick and Jon’s dagger. “She left,” he said, with anger poorly masking his sadness.

“Your grand-uncle, Brynden Tully, told me some of what happened during the war. Robb sent her to treat with Renly Baratheon. If things had gone differently, she might’ve won the war with that alliance. A Baratheon victory in King’s Landing would’ve brought Arya and Sansa home. Don’t blame her for going to save our sisters. Your mother loved all her children. I’m certain she wished to return to you after that.”

“Then why she didn’t? Why’s she dead?” he persisted, unsatisfied.

“Because. . . of the Freys.” _Because Walder Frey stole her from you and from Sansa. Because he broke guest-right and brutally murdered her. Freys and Boltons, traitors and murderers, both._ Jon said, “I killed him for it, Rickon. I executed Lord Frey and his son, Ser Raymund, with my own sword. I destroyed their castle. Your mother’s killers are dead.”

“Good.” Jon waited for more, but that was all Rickon had to say on the matter. He sat in silence as Jon finished preparing the kindling.

“Here,” he said, picking up the flint. “Take this and the striker. See the bird’s nest I made? Move closer to the bundle of straw and bark. Kind of _scrape_ the flint, instead hitting it.”

After Rickon struggled, Jon demonstrated and then handed the tools back. The boy was frustrated, but still he persisted. After a series of sparks landed on the straw, Jon told him to slide back and to wait. He carefully blew on the spot where the bundle touched the ground. First, they could see a thin trail of smoke, and then they heard the crackling of the catching straw.

Jon laid some of the twigs across the nest of straw, and the flames began to take to them too.

“See?” he said as the fire grew. “Even in the cold of winter, you can get a fire going, little brother, as long as you’re willing to accept help.”

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa Stark returned to the fire pit and saw that Jon already had breakfast underway. Rickon was acting the footman and bringing a pot to Osha.

Sansa asked, “What’s all this, good ser?”

“We men are handling the cooking duties this morning. Aye, Rickon?”

The auburn-haired wildboy nodded, but kept his eyes on the pot-handle he was clutching.

“What a treat,” she replied.

“Thank you, Rickon,” Lydrea said, taking hold of the pot before he dropped it.

Jon asked the boy to tell them what they’d made, and Rickon said, “Meat boiled in fat and wine.”

Sansa chuckled at his bluntness, and Lydrea thanked them both. Jon brought over mulled wine for them. “Warmed separate from the meat and fat,” he was careful to mention.

“Rickon, will you cut some little pieces for your cousin?” Lydrea asked of him.

As Sansa Stark enjoyed the bland meal her brothers had cooked, she heard someone approaching. Ghost and Shaggydog had already taken note and were staring in that direction.

“The fat one’s coming,” Rickon announced.

In an instant, Lydrea had the boy by his ear. “You know better than to say that,” she reprimanded.

When Ser Marlon Manderly circled around, Sansa whispered to her younger brother, “Is that who you meant? You knew from just the sound of his footsteps?”

Rickon rolled his eyes.

Jon said to her, “Later. I’ll explain.”

“Isn’t this a sight?” Manderly declared with a smile. “A feast fit for a queen and her kin.” He sat down on the opposite side of the fire, and Sansa’s brothers presented him a portion of boiled meat and mulled wine. He stabbed a chunk with his knife and as he ate, Marlon said, “Your Valemen grow restless, Queen Sansa. I think they fear Ser Wylis absconded with you and Ser Jon.”

“They’ve been patient - giving us yesterday undisturbed,” she answered. “Let’s not force them to wait any longer.”

Marlon nodded, then asked, “Jon, do you want to keep your brother, wife, and daughter hidden, or is it time the lords and knights of the Vale met them?”

He exchanged a look with Lydrea. “Aye, Ser Marlon. I believe it’s time. Rickon, how will Shaggy do inside the castle?”

The boy didn’t answer at first.

His good-sister spoke for him, “Shaggy prefers the godswood, yes. Wylis and Ser Bartimus were kind enough to build this cozy hut out here, so as thanks, I’m sure Rickon and his direwolf will be on their best behavior.” Sternly, she prodded, _“Right?”_

“Yes, Ly,” he said half-heartedly.

* * *

* * *

 

When Marlon Manderly beckoned for their breakfast party to follow him to the New Castle, Osha wasn’t sure what she would do. She held no allegiance to the Starks, or their bastard branch, Clan Whitewolf. _To say no lie,_ Osha thought, _I met the first o’ them Starks when the oldest boy pointed his sword at my neck and soon put chains ‘round me ankles._

“Ups,” she heard.

“Ups?”

Osha looked down to see Halya holding her arms above her head. She squeezed and opened her hands, as she was wont to do when she wished to get someone’s attention. Confused, the child looked around, then back up at Osha.

_“P’ease_ ups?”

The free-woman bent down and hoisted the suddenly smiling girl.

_Free, but not unbound._

“I’m thinking I’m stuck with you.” She gave Halya a little shake. “That’s right, you. You little chipmunk.”

* * *

 

The room was empty and gigantic. All sorts of sea creatures decorated the walls. Driftwood planks lined the floor and nets hung down from the ceiling. Osha watched a wide-eyed Rickon turn in place. Though she hid her fascination, she felt as he did.

“My lords,” said a heavy, finely dressed man, entering from a side door, “and my ladies.”

“Wylis,” Ly greeted, smiling. She released Jon’s arm and hurried over to him. He bent down to embrace her.

Jon gave the man a pat on the shoulder as he walked by.

Wylis Manderly acknowledged Jon then Sansa, before turning his attention to the babe in Osha’s arms. “Good morning to you, my lady.” Shy, Halya buried her face against Osha’s shoulder. The man greeted her, “Welcome to White Harbor, Osha of the wildlings.”

“Of _Deepdown,_ milord. I’m Osha of Deepdown.”

“Our trusted companion,” Lydrea added. “And since you’ve been too busy to come out to Wolf’s Den, may I also introduce my good-brother, Rickon Stark.”

“Rickon of Deepdown,” the boy said sharply. “Of the Crowl Clan, like my friends back there.”

The heavy set man began to walk over to him, but Shaggydog moved to block the way.

_“Rickon,”_ Lady Lydrea said with impatience, rather than alarm. At that, the black wolf sauntered toward Jon and Ghost, but kept his eyes trained on Wylis. “Don’t mind him, ser.” Lydrea grinned as she said, “It’s been an effort to train some manners into his master, would that I had the patience for Shaggy too.”

“Come now, Lady Drea. This isn’t the first direwolf I’ve met.” Wylis bent down and said, “I bet you’re hungry, my lord.”

Rickon looked around, before realizing that Manderly was speaking to him. He didn’t answer, so Lydrea again spoke for him, “We all just broke our fast, Wylis, but I’d love some bread. Anything doughy would be a godsend. You’ll find no mills in Deepdown, so I’m still making up for lost time.”

He and Marlon left to fetch the food themselves. Once they were gone, Osha asked, “What is this place?”

“They call this hall Merman’s Court,” said Sansa.

Rickon wondered, “Why do they have fish and things everywhere?”

“The Starks have their direwolf symbol,” Lydrea explained. “House Hornwood has its bull moose. And, the Manderlys have their merman. I don’t know the story behind it, little brother, but if you ask him, I’m sure Wylis will tell you.”

The boy made a face at that, then shook his head. Ly questioned if he didn’t like her cousin, and Rickon replied, “If I’m your brother and Halya’s your daughter, how’s Wylis your cousin?”

Lydrea got that tender look she displayed from time to time. “You are my brother because I wed _your brother,”_ she said, throwing a glance at Jon. “And, because I hold you so dear. Wylis Manderly calls himself my cousin because _his cousin,_ Donella Manderly, was my aunt, and because he and his father hold me dear.”

The boy didn’t look like he’d followed her explanation, because his attention had turned elsewhere. “What’s that?” he said, pointing at one of the painted creatures.

“A leviathan, they call it,” stated Wylis, returning to the chamber. “It’s a monster of the sea - a cross between a whale and a sea-serpent.”

“What’s that it’s fighting?”

“A kraken from the deep.”

Rickon ran to the front of the hall for a closer look. Halya squirmed in Osha’s arms until she was put down. The girl stumbled after her cousin, and Osha called over to Rickon, “Keep an eye on her, yes?”

The children ran to see if the paintings were real. Rickon claimed up and stood on a chair as wide as a bench.

Lydrea motioned toward the boy. “Is it alright if he. . ?”

“It’s fine,” Wylis assured. “My father won’t begrudge his liege a pair of footprints.”

“His _liege?”_ Sansa wished to know.

“We shall talk, Your Grace. But permit me to send for your Valemen and proper morning fare for them.”

She nodded in reply.

* * *

 

* * *

 

Queen Sansa watched Lady Lydrea stand up from the Manderly table. She kissed the cheek of Ser Wylis and then Jon’s. She bowed her head to the Valemen and showed Rickon and Halya to a room nearby they could play with the direwolves in. Ser Wylis’ daughters took their leave, as did Lord Sunderland’s sons and everyone else without standing to opine on the fates of kingdoms.

Remaining in at their places, Sansa Stark, Jon Whitewolf, Wylis and Marlon Manderly, the Sisterman lords: Sunderland, Borrell, Torrent, and Longthorpe; Sers Symond Templeton and Marwyn Belmore, all assembled.

The Valemen were finishing their meals in relative quiet, but Sansa could sense something amiss with Wylis. She said to him, “Ser, if you have something to say. . .”

“Since this small, morning feast was to present Lord Rickon Stark to the court,” responded Manderly, “he seems a fitting place to begin. If I may speak in earnest, my father intended to name the boy as. . . as our king. I agree with him, even in light of your arrival in White Harbor, Your Grace. Rickon Stark has the best claim.”

She watched her Valemen nod in agreement. Sansa’s thoughts went to Robert Arryn.

Manderly posed, “In all the centuries of Starks ruling the North, can Your Grace name me a single queen? If the few of us Northmen here think hard on our lessons, mayhaps we can name several queen regents who ruled in their sons’ names. But I don’t believe there was ever a Queen of Winter in her own right. Mayhaps I’m correct, mayhaps not, you see my point nonetheless, no?”

“Yes,” Sansa answered. “A female liege of the North is rare or perhaps never happened before.”

“I mean no disrespect to you, Your Grace. I only mean that what’s best for the North is the leader most able to unite us. Especially now. Winter is no longer coming, my lords, it’s upon us.” Wylis set down his wine. “Lord Rickon has the best claim, and he looks like the Young Wolf come again.”

Ser Marwyn Belmore offered, “I can see the wisdom in crowning him.”

“I cannot,” she challenged. “Rickon isn’t ready for any authority. I’ve seen what happens when a lord’s too young to speak for himself: false friends and ambitious bannermen covet what he has. They do all they can to manipulate him. I saw it with Lord Arryn, I saw it with King Joffrey, I have no taste for seeing done to my brother.”

“But he is your _brother,”_ said Lord Godric Borrell. “That means his right to rule precedes yours, Your Grace.”

“If I’ve learned anything in my time away, it’s that laws and claims are written with swords - not quills.” She focused squarely on Wylis. “Is rule of law the real reason you want Rickon to take my place? Or something else?” Manderly didn’t know how to respond, so Sansa continued, “You have two maiden daughters, ser, and no sons. If my little brother is to be king, will you press for a daughter of yours to be queen?”

“That _isn’t_ why,” he argued back. “But who better? My Wylla isn’t much older than him. Who better than her?” Ser Marlon put a hand on his shoulder, and Wylis slowed his speech. “Marriage is surely a consideration, isn’t it Your Grace?”

“Choose your words carefully,” Ser Jon cautioned on this tender subject.

Sansa said, “My marriage is over and done. Back at the Gates of the Moon, Albar Royce and my good-sister, Jeyne Stark, have most like received the letter of annulment from the High Septon already. My false marriage is no threat to you, Ser Wylis.”

“With respect,” he spoke, sounding genuine, “that just raises another uncertainty. Who, Your Grace, would be your king consort? Most every Northern suitor close to you in age died in battle or betrayal: Cley Cerwyn, Ben Tallhart, Lady Flint’s son, Smalljon Umber, all of them are dead. Many lords will struggle to chose successors, and you’ll likely have to look southward to find a husband. I do not like the thought of that, Queen Sansa.”

“What of Lord Arryn?” offered Triston Sunderland. “Bind us all in marriage.”

Sansa disguised her repulsion. “No, my lord. Lord Robert is too young.” Before anyone could next suggest Harry Hardyng, she stated, “I shall name Rickon as my heir. Will that cure your fears, Ser Wylis?”

He didn’t answer right away. “If Rickon Stark won’t be the King in the North, then I have someone else in mind.” Manderly turned from Sansa to her brother. “You.”

“Jon?” she wondered.

_“Me?”_

“Him?” asked Sunderland.

Manderly explained, “The North would rise for him. His lord father’s features bear through - no matter whom his mother was. Ser Jon proved himself in battle and… he has a dragon under his thrall.”

“It is not that way with Viserion,” he protested.

“I don’t mean to denigrate your training or bond with the creature, ser. I only point our attention to it. The North would follow you, Ser Jon.”

_I suppose that wouldn’t be awful,_ Sansa thought. _I wouldn’t have full say over my fate anymore, but Jon…. I could trust him as ruler and king._

Lord Godric Borrell spoke up, “A natural son reigning over the North? It seems strange. It’s against custom. You Northmen, of course, know this region better than I. But, think of Ser Brynden and the riverlords. Won’t they insist on a ruler with Tully blood?”

_Ah, yes._

“Still,” affirmed Ser Wylis.

Jon raised his eyes, but didn’t look straight at anyone. “I’ve never hungered for power, and I won’t begin today. What I want is. . . I want Roose Bolton and Ramsay- _fucking_ -Snow dead. I want justice and revenge. All this talking?” He pressed his palms to the table. “I already sat through too much discussion, back in the Vale.

“Sansa is queen. I swore my sword to her - so did you Valemen,” he reminded them, pointing. “Let us be done with flapping our lips. Let’s be on the march to Winterfell. Custom, succession, and all the rest be damned. Sansa’s queen. Rickon’s crown prince. I’m the - I’ll be the queen’s justice, for lack of a better way to say it. Me and Viserion,” Jon declared, “we will do our bloody best for the queen.”

Emboldened by her half-brother’s words, Sansa prodded, “Ser Wylis Manderly, are you decided? Here and now, will l have your knee. . . or your city?”

“My lady?”

“Bend your knee and swear me fealty. Refuse and I’ll expel you from White Harbor. My army outnumbers your garrison ten-to-one. In dragons, we hold the better of a one-to-none skew. Would you care to test my counting?”

She saw Jon stifle a smile and Marlon Manderly, Lord Wyman’s own cousin, gave Sansa a regarding glance.

“That won’t be necessary, my queen. I never intended anything less than true loyalty,” he replied, and Sansa believed him. Wylis leaned on his chair and lowered himself to one knee. “On behalf of my father, Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshall of the Mander, and Knight of the Order of the Green Hand, I swear House Manderly to you, Queen Sansa Stark.”

“And to you,” she returned, “I promise justice.” Sansa extended him a hand to help him up.

To her alone, he whispered, “They killed my brother too.”

She leaned up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I know they did.”

* * *

 

Wylis Manderly spent two days organizing columns of horse-sleighs to help Sansa’s army on its way to Winterfell. He and Marlon equipped the army with what they would need to brave the winter and their enemies. Fourteen thousand and five hundred Valemen were the main strength of the host, along with a token of two hundred knights sworn to White Harbor. Queen Sansa would remain at New Castle, under the protection of Ser Wylis and his garrison.

Ser Jon Whitewolf and Viserion prepared themselves to lead the attack to reclaim Winterfell for the Starks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for keeping up with this story! The next two chapters are just about done too.


	67. Arya - A Mummer's Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes its lead from GRRM's excerpt chapter: [Mercy](http://www.georgerrmartin.com/excerpt-from-the-winds-of-winter/). I recommend reading that one before reading mine, if you haven't seen it already. For anyone sensitive to mentions of sexual violence, scroll down to the comments of my chapter where I'll write out a brief trigger-warning for what to expect in GRRM's Winds of Winter post.

_“Valar morghulis,_ Raff the Sweetling,” she whispered.

 

It was Arya’s voice with which she uttered those words.

 

_Not Blind Beth._

_Not Cat of the Canals._

_Not Mercy the mummer girl._

_Not no one._

 

“Arya Stark.”

 

She pulled the sheet off Mercy’s bed and rolled Rafford in it. There wasn’t much she could do as the blood began to soak through the threadbare linens, but that no longer mattered.

 

_I am Arya, not Mercy._

 

Pulling at his lifeless wrist, she realized that Raff was too heavy for her to drag to the canals without help and left the corpse were it was, for now.

 

* * *

 

Arya Stark tip-toed into the back entrance of Izembaro’s theater. She stripped to her smallclothes as swiftly as she was able, lest a fellow mummer see her blood-stained dress. She donned another one, not caring that the Red Snapper was like to curse her out for wearing the wrong costume.

 

Daena found her backstage. “Mercy! You nearly missed it! Our entrance is now!” Mercy’s friend locked arms with Arya and brought her to the side-stage.

 

“Let the wedding feast begin!” called the mummer playing the Lion Lord. Daena and Arya stepped out from the wings together. “Here comes Lady Stork with her daughter, the queen-to-be!”

 

The mummers onstage cheered for them, and the ruffians in the pit made cat-calls.

 

The rest of the cast entered in turn, and the girl in a blonde wig, playing the Young King, came out for the scene last. Soon after they began to act out a feast, Arya and Bobono stood off to one side, away from the others. A transparent curtain of black netting came down over the rest of the stage, taking the focus of the scene away from everyone else and putting it squarely on her and the dwarf.

 

_And now for the rape._

 

She didn’t bother to recite her lines, instead giving Bobono a glare conveying to him how little tolerance she had for any groping. This part of the _Bloody Hand_ was meant to chase away any remaining pity towards the title character from the minds of the audience. With her stilted participation, the act was over in half the time they’d taken in the last rehearsal.

 

_I’m Arya of House Stark, not some mush-brained maiden._

 

She continued with her role, though, after the rape. The lace curtain rose away, and Arya rejoined the wedding scene. She ran to Daena and threw her arms around her.

 

The Lion Lord declared, “Lady Stork, what troubles your darling daughter on her wedding day?”

 

Daena looked to the audience and said, “What is it, my sweet girl.”

 

With the timing that Izembaro had thumped into their heads, woodblocks were clapped together off-stage.

 

The Lion Lord turned around. The crowds gasped when they saw he was holding the rear half of an arrow and a kerchief of red silk up to his stomach. “Who did this to me!” he shouted for all to hear.

 

Using Arya to block the audience’s view, Daena pulled half an arrow from her sleeve. Another clap sounded, and then the older girl announced, “I too am shot! At my daughter’s wedding, no less.”

 

Anger roiled inside Arya. _That’s not how it happened!_

 

The mummer playing the Young King clutched her throat. She too fell to her knees. “Poison!” she yelled in a boy’s voice.

 

The gallery gasped and the pit roared.

 

Arya held Daena’s hand as she acted out Lady Stork’s death.

 

Bobono the dwarf danced out from the side-stage. He hopped from one foot to the other. His fake cock flopped out in front of him, and he waved a crossbow over his head. “It was I,” the dwarf declared. “I poisoned my nephew and raped his queen-to-be! I shot my sire and the Lady of Stork with arrows!”

 

“No,” cried the Lion Lord. “Why?”

 

“Because I am the Bloody Hand! I was robbed by our Seven-Faced God. I take my vengeance on the world and will vanish, like the demon I am!”

 

The crowd hissed and the curtains fell. All of the mummers, save for Bobono, scurried off the stage.

 

Arya took Daena by the hand and led her backstage. She knew the rest of the play, and their roles were finished. _For the third act, Bobono will try to outrun the horn-headed Stranger, which birthed him in the graveyard in the first scene. After some begging and running, he’ll be caught and dragged to the hells._

 

“Where are we going?” Daena asked, as Arya pulled her out the back of the theater.

 

“Please,” she said, using her Mercy voice. “I need your help.”

 

The older girl came along, through the mists and alleyways of Drowned Town.

 

When they reached the door to Mercy’s bedroom, her friend wondered, “Does this have anything to do with the envoy’s guard? The one from the Sunset Kingdoms you fancied?”

 

“After a fashion, Daena.”

 

“Mercy. . .  your voice just then, that accent. . .”

 

Arya opened the door, but the other girl shied away. She had to pull her by the hand. Arya locked the door behind them. She reached into her sleeve and produced an object that belonged to her, not the girl she’d been pretending to be.

 

The older girl went still at the sight of it. “Is that. . . ?”

 

“Aye,” Arya replied. “It’s an _iron key.”_

 

“But that means you’re. . . Oh no! Please, no. Who would wish to kill me? I ain’t hurt no one, Mercy. Please, I-”

 

“Stop. Not _you._ I didn’t bring you here to kill you. Can’t you see that lump behind my chair?”

 

Daena sighed with relief. “A dead body.”

 

“Aye.”

 

“The envoy’s guard? The one you wished to _meet?”_

 

She nodded. “And meet him I did. Just help me toss him into the canal, where the eels and crabs will do for him.”

 

Daena shouldered most of the weight as they brought Raff down the rear stairway. The two girls carried him to the edge of the water. The mist provided them cover, as it always did in Braavos. It was better to tie a brick to a dead man’s ankles, but she had neither the brick nor the time.

 

“Wait,” Arya whispered. She rifled through Rafford’s pockets. She stole his coin purse, then they rolled him into the canal. To her friend, she said, “Daena, you need to flee.”

 

“What?”

 

Arya took her hand and poured out the coins. “See, these ones are _stags._ The three gold ones are _dragons._ Don’t use the Westeros money until you’re out of the city. See? Raff the Sweetling has some Braavosi coins too. Use those to book passage to Pentos, or really anywhere, just out of Braavos.”

 

“But why, Mercy?”

 

“Do you still think that’s my name?”

 

Daena pursed her lips and slowly shook her head.

 

“Valar morghulis, Daena. This man more than most. He murdered Lommy Greenhands.”

 

“Who?”

 

“That’s not important now. Men are going to come looking for me. Well, for Mercy. The Lannister guard, the old one, he saw Mercy with Raff. The mummers will tell them that we’re friends. They’ll come after you too.”

 

“But, but. . .”

 

 _“Daena?”_ she stressed in a firmer tone.

 

“Yes,” her friend answered. “Of course. Valar dohaeris. I’ll head to the docks right now.”

 

She got up and turned to leave, but Arya called her back, “Wait.”

 

She stopped in place.

 

“Daena?” Arya began. “We. . . we were friends, right? Like, real friends for true?”

 

The older girl hesitated, then nodded.

 

_In winter, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

 

“One last thing,” said Arya Stark. “You warned Mercy to stay away from Raff, because men from the Sunset Kingdoms are cruel. That’s what you said. You were right, but not all-the-way right. It’s only Southrons who are like that. Northmen, like my father was, are nothing like that.”

 

Daena looked at her strangely. She gave Arya a little smile before disappearing into the mist.

 

 _I have to vanish too._ She corrected herself, _Well, Mercy does._

 

Arya returned to her former quarters to gather up what she’d need. The girl collected the few items she possessed: her blade, her iron coin, and her iron key. The Kindly Man had told her to always keep them on her person. But those things belonged to her, not to the girl she was impersonating.

 

_I don’t need any of Mercy’s things, none of them._

 

She remembered Mercy’s looking glass, the most valued possession of the vain, cheery girl. Arya wondered what she could sell it for.

 

 _My face,_ she realized. _This face doesn’t belong to Arya Stark._

 

The Kindly Man had yet to teach her how to remove the living masks of the Faceless Men. Watching her reflection, she mimicked the gesture she’d seen Jaqen H’ghar and the Kindly Man both perform.

 

There was no change. _I’m still Mercy, the girl half the city will be searching for soon enough._ Arya took the looking glass with her and fled the bedroom.

 

She hurried away from her section of the city. Aimless, she found herself running toward the Canal of the Gods. She ran until she was short of breath, then ducked into a shadowy alcove. Arya again tried to take off Mercy’s face. _Seven hells._ Frustrated, she dug her nails into her brow and tried to peel back the false skin. Nothing felt false about it, and droplets of blood trickled down her forehead.

 

 _I must return to the House of Black and White._ Arya made her way in that direction, more slowly than she’d started out.

 

Parishioners seeking _the gift_ would enter through the ebony and weirwood doors in the front of the building. Priests and acolytes had secret ways inside. She went to the only secret entrance she knew, two canals away from the temple of the Faceless Men.

 

She waited for a passing mother and daughter to walk out of sight, then climbed down the side of one of Braavos’ countless bridges. Underneath the bridge, she found the pitch dark archway leading to a tunnel below the street. Arya plodded through the smooth-stone passage until she bumped an iron door. She ran her hands over it until she felt the keyhole. Just like in the city’s Hall of Justice, owning a key to the House of Black and White was a symbol of standing and membership.

 

 _I am one of them,_ she told herself, trying to calm her nerves. _Why am I worried?_ She turned the key around four times, then back once. The door creaked on its hinges. _Fear cuts deeper. . ._

 

Arya felt along the wall with her finger tips; she had neither a torch to see nor Blind Beth’s walking stick.

 

The walkway beneath the House of Black and White, though, wasn’t intended to confuse anyone who had the means to get through the locked door. Like all the others, this entry-tunnel led into the gathering room, where the Faceless Men would meet to decide which of them didn’t know a target’s name and would thus be the one to deliver _the gift._

 

Arya exited the empty, dark room and found the spiral stairs. From her weeks without her eyes, she knew every step and stone of it.

 

She was halfway up when she heard, “A girl cannot be here. A girl cannot return until she is sent for.”

 

_The waif._

 

“I need to get this face off.”

 

The waif said nothing back. _She knows something’s wrong. She knows I’m in trouble._

 

Regardless, she showed Arya to her chamber. The girl who’d been the same age for thirty years lit a candle. At first, it filled the room with the scents of spruce trees and wintergreen bulbs.

 

“Refusing to do as you’re told, it is not done.”

 

Arya replied, “I just need to take off this face, then I’ll be fine.”

 

“A girl does not understand the choice she is making.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“The God of Many Faces must have his due. A debt to him. . . a life to pay for life, a death for a death. . .”

 

Arya remembered Jaqen H’ghar explaining to her the same exchange. _Three deaths his god needed, because I saved three lives. For Jaqen, Biter, and Rorge, I gave him three names._

 

She argued to the waif, “What about the man who cheated the sailors’ widows? I gave him to your god.”

 

The waif lowered her gaze. “You do not understand.” Yet, instead of trying to school her further on the theology of killers, she silently led Arya to one of the vaults below the temple. The waif instructed her to undress and took clothes off the shelves for her. _A dead man’s clothes._ The breeches, jerkin, and tunic were of the style that boys often wore, before they were old enough for the garish silks of sword-dueling bravos. She asked Arya to crouch down. The waif removed Mercy’s wig. Mummers, even maiden ones, kept their hair close-cropped to better fit the prop-masters’ wigs.

 

“If you want to help disguise me as a boy, I just need to get Mercy’s face off me.”

 

However, her one-time instructor ignored her. After she dressed Arya, she fitted her for a swordbelt. On her left hip, the waif pinned a sheathed knife and on her right, a thin but empty scabbard.

 

“Where’s the sword?” Arya wondered. “What good is something to hold a blade, without a blade in it?”

 

The waif made a thin smile. Rather than a weapon, she presented a small shovel.

 

“A trowel?” asked Arya. “What for?”

 

“Did you believe you deceived us? That we did not know what you hid?”

 

_Needle._

 

The waif tied a pouch of coins to Arya’s belt, then tucked it in her waistband. “At last,” she said, “a girl ceases to be no one.”

 

Arya Stark felt the waif’s hand touch her face and thus closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Mercy’s face had dissolved away.

 

“Who are you?” asked the waif.

 

“I am Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

 

“Just so.”

 

The waif escorted Arya from the vaults to one of the many hidden passageways. The child-woman seemed more on edge than Arya had ever seen her, and she was diligent about exiting the temple without running into anyone.

 

“I want to say goodbye to him, the priest I called the Kindly Man. And, to thank him for taking me in.”

 

“Arya Stark cannot.”

 

“What aren’t you telling me,” she accused.

 

The waif promised, “I will speak to him after you leave.”

 

She felt the tiny woman kiss her cheek and wondered why she’d done it. Arya asked, “Does this mean I can never come back? That I’ll never see you again?”

 

The waif’s expression was still, but her voice sounded warm as she replied, “Arya Stark can never return here. _Never._ But. . . you can leave in peace and know your debt to the God of Death will be set aside. A girl must know. . . she was the favorite of all my novices. Not the best nor the easiest, but mine own favorite still. Go forth, child, and be free of this place.

 

“Put out your hand,” she asked. When Arya did, the little priest placed a coin in it.

 

“Oh, I don’t need this. Thanks, but I still have my iron coin and my key. . . Wait, where'd my key go?”

 

The waif admitted to taking the iron key from her clothes while she changed. “I could not allow you to leave with it, for your own sake. An iron key belongs only to a priest or acolyte of our order. A coin. . . each of us may hand over our one coin as we need to.”

 

“Like Jaqen did, but I still have his. So why are you giving me another? Why are you giving me yours?”

 

The waif said calmly, “Because it is mine to give, Arya of the Starks. I choose to give it to you.”

 

She didn’t understand, but accepted it anyways. Arya hid it in her smallclothes with the other coin and thanked her friend for the gift.

 

* * *

 

Kneeling on the street in front of the House of Black and White, Arya pried up the cobblestone with her trowel and took Needle from its hiding place.

 

 _Where do I go now?_ Her first thought was of returning to Winterfell, but she knew that there was nothing left for her in that place. She considered trying for Castle Black, as her uncle was the lord commander.

 

_So long as he isn’t dead, like most everyone else._

 

But deep in her heart, Arya knew she had work left to do before she could indulge in any whims, like seeing home or finding Benjen.

 

_My list._

 

She whispered the names like a prayer, “Dunsen, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei.”

 

The queen’s envoy seemed the best place for her to resume her quest. _If Raff the Sweetling was with him, maybe Dunsen will be too._

 

Arya walked over the bridge between the House of Black and White’s isle and the one that held the Sept Beyond the Sea. She sauntered along, playing the part of a boy aspiring to become a bravo for anyone who might see her. Next, she crossed the four arch bridge. The middle of it was high enough that she could see over the roofs of the houses along the Canal of Heroes. Ship masts from the Purple Harbor peaked above the roofline, as did the bronze statues of past sealords from atop their pillars. _That’s where I have to get to, the Sealord’s Palace._

 

She traveled through the bent-back alleys until she reached the Moon Pool’s plaza, which sat just in front of the square gate-castle guarding the palace. Seeing no way inside, she watched the Sealord’s men patrolling the streets in that section of the city. Padding along through the mist, Arya followed a pair of them and eavesdropped on their whining.

 

Both men were in agreement that the Westerosi emissary was being paranoid. The taller guard compared him to a mother hen.

 

The other supposed, “Sealord Antaryon knows the foreigner for a fool. But what else to do? He has to appear to make inquiries into the chicken-lord’s missing knight, even if he fled off with some whore.”

 

“Just so,” agreed his companion. “Once someone finds the mummer-whore, that is when we’ll find the knight.”

 

For nearly an hour, Arya continued to follow them. However, the only useful thing she learned was that Lord Harys Swyft was residing in the Sealord’s Palace, but she’d expected as much.

 

* * *

 

The clay-shingle rooftop of the _Prince’s Pillow_ gave her a good view of the Sealord’s Palace. In the plaza below, bravos circled each other, dueling beside the Moon Pool. The brothels near the palace, like _Prince’s,_ were much finer than the ones Arya knew from her time as Blind Beth begging her way around the docks for foreign sailors. In this section of Braavos, the whores and aspiring courtesans leaned out their windows, but did not shout at passersby.

 

As she sat on her solitary perch, Arya thought on what the patrolmen had said hours earlier. She concluded that Raff’s corpse hadn’t been discovered.

 

With nightfall upon her, she took off her boots and used them as a pillow. Arya tucked her hands into her armpits to keep them warm in the chilly air. She wished to rest for the night on that roof and intended to resume her watch when the sun rose.

 

* * *

 

 _Men,_ she thought when she heard the ungodly amount of noise downriver. Her grey cousins crept away from the water, their fear of the small, piercing man-claws that flew through the air outweighing their thirst.

 

She wasn’t afraid of men in the way that the smaller wolves were. Still, she didn’t step out from the trees.

 

She’d eaten her fill of that night’s kill, a brown-speckled horse. As the head of her pack, she always ate first whether she’d been the one to take down the prey or not. The snow in the woods wasn’t deep, but it would chill her meal if she waited too long, and the flesh of prey always tasted its best when warm. Horseflesh was tougher than the fat off cows or the muscles of man. But a horse’s insides tasted of sour bile, and thus she had feasted on the tough meat and left the horse’s guts for her cousins.

 

When the noise coming up the waterway finally reached her, the men in their. . . _Boats,_ a voice reminded her.

 

These _boats_ were far bigger than the usual water travelers, and she saw more of them than she ever had at one time.

 

Amidst the splashing and general clamor, she heard a ringing sound. She thought it might be a bird at first, an early one beginning its morning song before the night’s darkness lifted. But it chirped again, and somehow she knew it wasn’t a birdsong.

 

 _Bells,_ that far off voice whispered to her.

 

* * *

 

Arya Stark awoke to the sound of the palace’s belfry announcing the new day. She stretched the kink in her neck and thought, _Would that dream meat could keep me full after I opened my eyes._ However, she decided not to risk leaving her post in search of food, in case she missed seeing her target.

 

At midday, she finally caught a glimpse of Lord Harys Swyft. He was leaving the Sealord’s Palace and then made the short walk past the Moon Pool to the Iron Bank of Braavos. From her high vantage point atop the brothel, she waited and watched for him to come back out. He spent less than an hour with the bankers before leaving.

 

She crept along rooftops, keeping him in sight. _There won’t be any mummer’s pageantry or comely courtesans for you today, my lord,_ Arya thought as Swyft next sought out the streets near Purple Harbor. He visited one shop stall after another, talking to the charterers. They made their coin loaning to Braavosi captains who needed to purchase their trade goods before setting out. It could be lucrative or ruinous, depending on the whims of the sea. When Swyft left the last of them, Arya could see that none of the men accompanying him were carrying even a single sack of coins.

 

Less reputable than the charterers were the money-changers at Ragman’s Harbor. They did their trade in taverns, rather than the privacy of their own stalls. Arya had to climb down from a balcony to keep after him, but didn’t want to give herself away. She kept her distance in the streets, and saw Harys Swyft enter the Inn of the Green Eel.

 

As the day waned into evening, her stomach ached from skipping meals. _I don’t wish to miss my chance,_ Arya thought. Nonetheless, she wondered to herself, _My chance for what? Am I going to put a knife to the man’s throat and demand to know where Dunsen or Ser Ilyn is? What would that earn me besides a noose?_

 

Swyft left the Eel with scrolls tucked under his arm, but didn’t turn to head back to the palace. He  continued to Pyntos’ tavern, though he didn’t stay long. His face looked as pleased by the day’s efforts as Arya’s belly. Next, he took one look at the winesink called the Foghouse and refused to step inside.

 

Arya followed him from the adjacent street, and the rooster-lord made his walk back to the Sealord’s Palace for the night.

 

* * *

 

Arya Stark continued her spying into a second day. She had only cats and gulls to keep her company up on the rooftops. The birds were a nuisance, as Arya was only an ill-timed squawk away from being spotted. The cats, strangely, seemed almost drawn to her. _I’ve made use of them before. . ._

 

She took her eyes off the Iron Bank’s entrance and watched one of her followers descend a rain spout to pounce on an unsuspecting rat scurrying around a corner in the alley below.

 

* * *

 

A second day proved fruitless for both Arya and Harys Swyft. After he’d returned to the palace and she was settling in for another night on the roof, an uproar came striding through the Plaza of the Moon Pool. She rolled over and crawled to the edge of the roof. Torches lit the way for two men and several servants trailing after them. They were stopped at the gate-castle to the Sealord’s Palace. There, the patrolmen inspected them, and from their lanterns she could better see whom the men were.

 

 _Westerosi,_ Arya realized. _Lords or knights, most like._

 

“They must have something to do with Lord Swyft,” she whispered to no one. Arya ached to spy on them. Nonetheless, she knew that she would never be allowed past the gate.

 

 _The cats,_ she thought. Arya hadn’t willed herself to control a cat since she was Blind Beth. _How hard could it be if I’ve done it before?_

 

 _I have need of you,_ she thought, looking at one of the stray cats on the roof. _Do this, and I’ll find a reward for you. A cut of fish or slice of meat - something you’ll like._

 

Arya laid down on the shingles and closed her eyes. She tried to concentrate on the sounds in the city square below her. She felt her ears twitch, but still couldn’t hear anything. Her senses befogged her, though she found herself able to use her fingernails. She dug them into a drain spout and scurried down. She trotted over to the gate-castle, trying to appear as casual as she could. _Don’t attract attention._ When she stood right next to the patrolmen, they still took no notice of her. _This is almost too easy,_ she thought. Arya gathered her courage and sprinted right by. She didn’t look back in case they were to chase after her, but of course they did not. _All they saw was a cat._

 

She caught up with the pair from Westeros and followed closely behind them. When they reached the palace, they made a series of sounds and were then admitted into the building.

 

 _Words,_ a voice reminded her. _Listen to them._

 

One of the guards showed them through the Sealord’s grounds, and she followed at their heels. She lost track of how long she’d been walking. To her, it felt burdensome to try to sense of the passing of time and could measure it only by how hungry she was.

 

 _Fish, not meat,_ Arya realized. _I’d like it to be fish. No, crab. Ah yes, that’s what I’d like when I’m done._ She licked her whiskers, imagining the taste.

 

A thought began to enter her mind. _Focus._

 

A door swung open. Behind it, the rooster-lord was standing all alone. When he saw the two men, he clasped the first on the arm and embraced the second. The Sealord’s servants brought food and drink into the room, and Arya made a dash inside. On instinct, she was careful to keep her tail from getting stepped on.

 

The servants turned and left. Once they were gone, Arya listened to Lord Swyft say, “Though I’m pleased to see a pair of familiar faces, I must needs ask, Ser Addam, why’s it you who acts the message-bearer for the queen? And with my brother’s grandson, no less?”

 

The one with the fiery tree on his chest said, “The short version of that song is thus: When Ser Brynden Tully escaped Riverrun, Ser Jaime assigned me the charge of leading the search. My outriders and I swept as far south as King’s Landing without a hint or sighting of the Blackfish. It wasn’t until I reached the capitol that I learned he’d reappeared in the Vale and had retaken Riverrun out from under Emmon Frey.

 

“As for Ser Humfrey’s presence, seeing as he was doing nothing more eventful than practicing his lance-work in the Red Keep, I decided to avail myself of his service on this trek across the Narrow Sea.”

 

The young rooster-knight bowed his head to the old rooster-lord and then handed over a scroll. Harys Swyft broke the seal and began to examine its contents.

 

After reading it twice, his frustration washed over him. “How much more can the queen demand of me? I didn’t create this mess we’re in.” He huffed and tried to catch his breath. “And now? Her Grace sends me this?”

 

While his face was turning red, he waved the square of parchment in the air. As it fluttered, Arya realized that she’d quite like to steal it from his grasp. Alas, he was too big, so she continued to listen and wait. _Mayhaps he will drop it later._

 

“Ser Addam, Ser Hum, listen to all she pledged away: _three thousand_ gold dragons, a second lordship, the winch-tower chains from the Battle of the Blackwater, three quarters of a mile of thinner chains, catapults, scorpions, crossbows, and pardons.”

 

“Pardons?” asked Humfrey Swyft. “Who will Queen Cersei be pardoning?”

 

“A pardon for this lord, including all his kin, and also his liege lord.”

 

Addam wondered, “What will Her Grace receive in exchange for all that?”

 

Harys’ jowls quivered. “A queen’s ransom and more, for some girl who’s no longer a queen. She’s now just some used-up, childless, Stark girl.”

 

_Sansa!_

 

Arya shot up from her back. Frantically, she scrambled about her perch on the roof.

 

_A queen? Did Sansa marry Joffrey before he died?_

 

She recalled the rumors she’d heard from the Tickler back at an inn in the Riverlands. He had been the one who told Arya and the Hound of Joffrey’s death. However, she knew better than to believe anything he said. _The Tickler thought that Arya Stark was captured and sent to the Boltons, when I was sitting right before his eyes. He said Sansa married the Imp, then turned into a wolf with bat-wings and flew away._

 

Her thoughts turned back to Sansa. _If she’s a widowed queen, then. . . How could she go through with marrying Joffrey after all he did? That selfish, stupid, vain twit! Didn’t she even care that he beheaded Father?_

 

But beneath her anger, she knew the truth of her sister’s character. _Sansa never wanted to be a Stark. She just wished to be a Southron lady, or even a princess. She would damn the North to the hells if it would help her get closer to Cersei and earn Sansa the favor of her golden prince._

 

Arya calmed down and tried to return to the cat’s mind. As she did so, she heard the men speak a name, “Jeyne.”

 

_Jeyne? Did Sansa stay with Jeyne? I’m her sister, not some stupid, name-calling Jeyne Poole!_

 

“. . . king’s dead, my lord. Without him, why would she matter at all?”

 

“In the letter,” explained Lord Swyft, “Her Grace seems. . . she seems nigh obsessed with getting her hands on this young _queen,_ if we can even call the girl that.”

 

“Nuncle,” began Ser Humfrey, beckoning for Swyft’s attention. “Before Her Grace charged me to come along with Marbrand, she was out of sorts. It seemed that she’d learned something regarding the girl’s grandmother. It sent her into a mad-” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Well, it angered her, my lord. She called the grandmother a witch, but I did not think it proper to inquire about the comment. So your guess or mine, who can say if she meant an actual witch or merely a woman who displeased her.”

 

Harys stamped across the floor and resumed his whining, “I don’t care a fig for this grandmother, who like as not is a widowed, old crone half-forgotten by ungrateful children.”

 

Humfrey Swyft corrected, “Her Grace said the woman is dead, my lord.”

 

“Do you think that matters, ser? It is _Cersei_ who concerns us. Bugger all, the queen’s already spent the coin I am unable to gain for her. The bankers deny my every request, the Sealord denies me. . . Yet still, I’m languishing in this dank city.”

 

One of the younger men said something, which Arya couldn’t distinguish.

 

“I’m getting to that,” replied the Knight of Cornfield. Harys Swyft looked at the parchment and paraphrased, “This lord is of the Vale. His son walked straight into the Arryn stronghold dressed as a scheduled baggage train carrying winter provisions. Her Grace mocks the pretender queen by saying the girl had only a pair of striplings as her makeshift kingsguard. They died with steel in hand, it would seem. Nevertheless. . . Queen Cersei compares the stand of those young knights to the Tarbecks’ feeble attempt to resist her late father.”

 

“And the lordship she bestowed?”

 

“Some castle stolen from his forebears a thousand years ago.” He scanned the message. “Ah, here. _‘Name him Lord of. . .”_

 

He turned the sheet over. _“ ‘. . .of Ironoaks.’ ”_

 

 _Ironoaks?_ Arya wondered.

 

“Ironoaks, my lord?”

 

“That is what I just said, Hum. Lord Melcolm is his name, though I’ve never encountered the man.”

 

Addam Marbrand responded, “I am still puzzled by the whole affair. I was with Ser Jaime at Riverrun when he allowed the girl go. Why would she suddenly become so important? And, I’ve yet to hear how she escaped Ser Forley Prester. Or was it that she escaped from the Crag?”

 

_What’s the crag?_

 

Swyft stated that the letter made no mention of any escape. The three men reached a lull and stood silently.

 

No longer focused on listening to the man-growls, Arya felt her stomach begin to ache.

 

_I’m so hungry. . . oh, the crab meat!_

 

She fought to stay in that room, in case she could glean anything more about Sansa. But, her body didn’t share that desire. She scratched at the door until one of the men noticed her and opened it.

 

Soon after, she found herself on the edge of a roof staring at a sleeping girl. She opened her other set of eyes. Back in her own skin, Arya Stark’s first action was climb down and head off to Ragman’s Harbor in search of anyone peddling crab claws at that late hour.

 

* * *

 

Lord Swyft spent a third day begging for coin. His efforts were in vain, but Arya saw nothing to indicate he was preparing to leave Braavos.

 

 _If Daena was right when she told Mercy the rumor that Swyft faced a noose if he returned without the queen’s gold. . ._ Arya wondered, _Mayhaps the old man will spend the whole of winter on this side of the Narrow Sea._

 

She asked herself if there might be some way to stow aboard his ship, as that might lead her to Cersei Lannister and get her close enough to steal Sansa away from the queen. _As the Master of Coin, who could better help me get into the Red Keep?_

 

_Might I convince him to go back to his bitch of a queen? How?_

 

* * *

 

She followed him for a fourth day, and a scheme began to foment in her mind.

 

In Braavos, a man could not walk in any which direction; the streets and alleyways bent to accommodate the canals and bridges. This meant that lords and peasants alike frequently bumped into each other while stepping around one of the many blind corners.

_Just like in The Merchant’s Melancholy Daughter, when the Sealord rounds a corner and gets shat on._

 

Arya snuck along the rooftops out ahead of Swyft’s path from the Iron Bank to the charterers, the same route he’d begged along on the prior days. She sat ready to strike when the envoy came near, but the timing of the men around Lord Swyft proved inopportune. Thus, Arya made haste to be out in front of him and his tail of guards.

 

From a gable above, she could watch Harys Swyft approaching an alley turn and also see anyone coming in the opposite direction. Before the queen’s envoy could turn onto a street of taverns and winesinks near Ragman’s, Arya spotted her mark.

 

 _He’s perfect,_ she thought, seeing an unfamiliar Braavosi coming toward her.

 

With her good knife in her left hand and her razor and other tools up her sleeve, Arya Stark fell upon Harys Swyft. The twelve foot drop provided all the force she needed to knock the old fool on his arse. Before either the Sealord’s guardsmen or Swyft’s knights could react, she’d opened her target’s throat, leaving both her blades with the man during the near instant skirmish.

 

“Wait! Wait!” she yelled, alternating Braavosi with the Common Tongue. “Look, look!”

 

The guards’ spears weren’t stayed by her words, nor by Swyft’s startled shriek. Instead, the gurgled dying of some unknown Braavosi man was all that stopped them from killing her.

 

“See? See? An assassin, assassin.”

 

The men yanked Arya’s arms behind her back, but her tools were already where they needed to be.

 

Lord Swyft was helped to his feet in time to see the target’s final gasp of life. “Who?” was all the wisdom the old man could cough out to his knights.

 

“Assassin, me lord,” Arya answered him.

 

“Lord Swyft,” said Ser Addam Marbrand with a gasp. “My lord, look in his hand.”

 

Sure enough, the men-at-arms found a razor clutched in the dead man’s palm.

 

“My lord, who’s the boy?”

 

Everyone turned to Arya. Speaking the Common Tongue in a Braavosi’s accent and a boy’s voice, she began, “I am called. . .” In a moment of brilliance, Arya said, “Syrio Sevenlives, me lord.”

 

On her feet, but held away from Swyft, she continued, “In taverns, men speak of your first sword and a mummer girl - both murdered. In Braavos, this means only a single, one thing, me lord: assassin.”

 

They turned their attention back to the dead man, and Swyft asked the patrolmen loaned to him by the Sealord, “Is this man a hired blade? He looks like some fishmonger.”

 

Arya insisted that she was right about the man, but the patrolmen said they couldn’t be sure.

 

Ser Humfrey offered, “I’ll check his person for anything that might speak to whom he was.” The man stepped in the pool of spilt blood and rummaged through the corpse’s clothing. He held up several trinkets, but mumbled that they were of little help.

 

“What’s this. . .” He pulled from the dead man’s waistband something small and round. “It’s a rusted-over medallion, mayhaps.”

 

“No,” stated a palace guard. He and his fellows began backing away. “That is a coin, sire. . . an _iron coin.”_

 

* * *

 

Arya was hauled back to the palace. She turned Needle and her knife over to Lord Swyft. The guards patted down her sleeves and legs, but by the Mother’s mercy, they didn’t check her smallclothes.

 

Seated before Harys Swyft and the Sealord of Braavos, Syrio Sevenlives answered their questions. Sealord Ferrego Antaryon was as massive as Daena had described. Each of the seats in his looking room could have fit four _Aryas._ Qarro Volentin, his first sword, stood nearby. Lord Harys Swyft, in his yellow and blue, pulled up a chair to the round table.

 

As Syrio Sevenlives, Arya sat facing the Sealord, with Swyft on her left. She inched to the edge of her chair, so her feet wouldn’t dangle off the floor.

 

For Swyft’s benefit, they spoke in the Common Tongue, and Arya pretended to struggle over her words. She offered them the story of her past, but afterwards the Sealord accused, “You lie. You are no bravo who lives and dies by the skill of his sword. You are still a child. An orphan and a thief, by the look of you.”

 

Swyft was less concerned about the personal history of Syrio Sevenlives. He disregarded the tale of her upbringing and asked, “How did you spot the assassin before trained men could? Tell me that.”

 

In a boy’s voice, she declared, “I wish to be your knight, me lord.”

 

 _“Knight?_ You are barely old enough to be a squire.”

 

“One of those then!” she proposed excitedly. “They still wield blades like your knights, no?”

 

Harys did not give her an answer. He asked the ruler of Braavos for his conclusion.

 

“This boy is a thief and a liar, in all likelihood. But what I cannot deny is the iron coin found on the dead man. It is the sign he was a Faceless Man.”

 

_My coin, and I still have the waif’s hid in my smallclothes._

 

“A Faceless Man. . .” Harys whispered with a visible shiver.

 

Arya prayed that the fear of a price on his head was finally sinking into his skull.

 

The Sealord said to Syrio Sevenlives, “I shall provide you a servant’s quarters to stay the night, while the envoy decides what he wishes to do with you. Qarro, see that a guard is posted at this boy’s door.” As he dismissed her, Sealord Antaryon added, “Lord Swyft of the Cornfields will choose whether to take you into _his service.”_ He then touched two fingers to his fleshy cheek.

 

“I hope he does,” she replied in the Common Tongue, “for all men must serve.”

 

* * *

 

From inside the room they provided her, Arya Stark tried to reach out for the cat’s thoughts. She prayed that her companion was still nearby the palace. To whom she directed her prayers, Arya couldn’t have said, but she was relieved when she felt her paws against floorboards.

 

She searched out Lord Swyft’s quarters and found them more easily this second time. From an adjacent hallway, the cat climbed out an open window and made her way to the man’s chamber. She crept onto his windowsill, then leapt down to the floor. She landed, front paws first, and kept to the edge of the room.

 

“I was almost slain today! But for some feral sneak-thief, I would have joined Ser Kevan and Maester Pycelle in the grave. There must be some common thread between their murders and today’s hired blade. . .

 

“Could it have been Tyrion’s work?” Harys Swyft questioned, more to himself than to Addam Marbrand or the younger Humfrey Swyft. “What cause does Tyrion Lannister have to put a price on my neck? It was Gyles Rosby stole Lord Tyrion’s seat at the Small Council out from under him. It wasn’t me! I’m the Master of Coin, aye, but it was the queen who named me so. I didn’t steal the title, it was. . . _Mother’s mercy._ . .”

 

“What is it, nuncle?”

 

“Lord Rosby. . .”

 

Ser Addam looked to Humfrey, then questioned, “Pardons, my lord. We don’t-”

 

“The council,” Swyft insisted. He appeared as if in a trance, wide-eyed but unfocused. “We all assumed Gyles finally succumbed to the cough he’d battled for the last decade. But, he must have been Tyrion’s first murder. Queen Cersei said as much, but Kevan, Pycelle, and I. . . we paid her no mind. Seven hells, it’s so obvious! How could we not have seen it?”

 

“What do you plan, my lord?”

 

“What choice do I have?” he returned. “Doubtless, Her Grace will be wroth, but she can hardly expect me to linger in the city of the Faceless Men, when in fact, they mean to cut my throat. No, Ser Marbrand. I must needs seek the protection of the Red Keep. . . for all the protection it granted my good-son and the grand maester.”

 

Humfrey Swyft said something Arya didn’t hear, and Lord Harys seemed to relax.

 

“I’ve made my decision, sers. You are dismissed for the night.”

 

* * *

 

Arya was left alone all morning, but at midday, Harys Swyft arrived at her door, accompanied by servants bearing food.

 

“Young Syrio, I hope you did not mistake prudence for ingratitude, yesterday. I will never forget your actions. You are too lowborn to be mine own squire, but because you saved my life, I offer you the chance to squire for the guardsmen I hired just this morn. Boy,” he asked, “would you care to leave this city behind for the chance to see King’s Landing?”

 

Arya accepted and as she’d hoped, he chartered a ship to return him to Westeros that very day.

 

When she stepped onboard, though, one of Swyft’s knights directed, “Boy, you’re with the other Braavosi.”

 

 _How in the seven hells am I going to manage this?_ Arya questioned the very moment she saw how many men she’d be sharing quarters with. They were sellswords and flamboyant bravos, all hired to protect Lord Swyft with the promise of Cornfield coin.

 

The galley set out onto the Narrow Sea, and for the first day, Arya had no trouble hiding the fact that she was a girl.

 

On the second night, however, one of the men got curious. He asked her in Braavosi, “Why did the lord hire you? You’re ten years younger than the rest of us.”

 

“Just so,” she replied. “But, I saved the lord from a hired blade.”

 

“A Faceless Man, I heard,” offered one of the others. “That’s a stinking lie if ever I heard one.”

 

The first sellsword challenged, “Do you admit it, boy? Do you admit the lie?”

 

From their bunks, the others stared down at her. On instinct, her hand went to Needle’s hilt. The cabin overflowed with laughter at that.

 

“Do you wish to cross blades, child? Or, are you ready to tell us what you’re really after?”

 

 _“Valar morghulis,”_ she answered.

 

“Is it you who plans to do it? To bring me death?”

 

Arya Stark reached into her pants and drew out the waif’s coin.

 

“God,” remarked the sellsword, unable to hide his shock.

 

“Do you understand the lie now?” Arya posed to him.

 

He lowered his eyes. _“Valar dohaeris.”_ The rest of the cabin echoed his words.

 

From that moment through the days that followed, no one asked Arya why she never undressed for bed or why she made water in a bucket, rather than over the side of the boat. The men did, however, make certain to use each other’s names with every statement they uttered. With the incessant repetition, she couldn’t help but learn all the sellswords’ names.

 

She said almost nothing until the ship reached the half-repaired docks of King’s Landing. As the sellswords stepped aside and allowed her to leave the cabin first that morn, she touched two fingers to her face and said, “Valar dohaeris.”

 

“Valar morghulis,” they replied.

 

_All men must die._

_Now to see that Cersei Lannister, Ilyn Payne, and Meryn Trant all meet their deaths, and to find my stupid sister an’ make she sure doesn’t. . . No matter if I have to drag her by the hair away from her beloved feasts and galas and dancing._

 

 

 

 


	68. Jon - A Flight over the Wood.

From the sky, finding your way was more difficult than one would expect. To Ser Jon, everything looked vastly different from high above, and the snow-cover made landmarks even harder to recognize. Nevertheless, Jon felt certain he and Viserion would find their target, as it was more than one hundred and ten miles wide.

 

Several hours earlier, they’d left the teams of draft horses and soldiers. The host was heading northward along the western bank of the White Knife, keeping the river between them and two castles under Bolton control: the Dreadfort and Castle Hornwood.

 

While Jon was readying Viserion’s saddle, Lord Godric Borrell had approached. “Why are you heading off on your dragon? You’ll arrive at Winterfell days before our army is in position, ser.”

 

“I’m not heading for Winterfell,” Jon had said. “I have somewhere else I must needs go first. Don’t fret, my lord. You have my word we shall return soon.”

 

Now clutching the curved handhold of the saddle, Jon used the dragon’s sight in the veil of night. Viserion possessed keener eyes than he did, especially for distances and most of all, in darkness. The dragon’s vision could adjust better to the light of the stars and moon, but similar to how surroundings took on a greyish tint in moonlight for Jon, Viserion saw entirely in hues of grey at night.

 

They spotted the forest.

 

_Look for where the wood meets the river._

 

Viserion circled until they both saw it.

 

_Castle Hornwood._

 

Jon directed her to the rookery, and Viserion glided down to it. _There aren’t any lanterns or torches moving below,_ he thought. On the tower’s roof, Jon pulled his feet from the tightly strapped stirrups and climbed from the dragon’s saddle. He slid down to the balcony, kicked in a window, and slipped inside.

 

A man froze at the sight of this intruder, dropping his pail of table scraps. He was slight of build and not much older than Jon.

 

“I know you,” said Jon, staring at him in the candle light. “I recognize your face. . . You’re the half-maester’s son. You served Lord Hornwood.”

 

He said nothing in return.

 

“You know me. Remember? I was in Lord Halys’ solar. I was asking for his niece’s hand.”

 

“Lady Lydrea?”

 

“Yes,” Ser Jon said. He almost told the man of Lydrea’s survival, but held back. He questioned, “Why would someone so trusted by Lord Hornwood turn his cloak and serve those who raped and murdered Lady Donella?”

 

The man stammered, “L-Lady Hornwood?”

 

Jon wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his dragon-forged sword.

 

“Wait! Lord Ramsay gave me no choice! When Lord Manderly stopped protecting us, when he turned the Hornwood over to House Bolton. . . You don’t know the things Lord Ramsay threatened.”

 

“Who holds the castle now?”

 

“One of the _Bastard’s Boys,_ one of Ramsay’s.”

 

“Where is he? How many men are loyal to him?”

 

“First Man’s Keep most like,” said the three linked false-maester. “Twenty- wait, it’s now only eight-and-ten. Yes, eighteen Dreadfort men-at-arms.” He looked at the floor. “Save for a few of us who serve in the castle, Lord Ramsay took all the men to go fight Stannis Baratheon. How many men did you bring, my lord? Where are they?”

 

“I’ll explain soon enough, maester. I mean to kill Ramsay’s boys, but I can’t chance that you’ll send off a raven to Winterfell or the Dreadfort.”

 

“I won’t, m’lord. I swear it.”

 

“Still,” Jon insisted. He looked at this man and thought of Lord Halys. “You never told me your name.”

 

“Albett, and sometimes _Maester_ Albett.”

 

“Maester Albett, forgive me for this.” Jon shoved him into the privy and wedged an empty crow cage over the handles to trap him inside.

 

 _Viserion,_ he called in silence. _We must needs fly over to the keep._

 

Jon sat on the balcony rail and hung his legs over the ledge. Viserion dove off the roof, wings spread, and caught him as she swooped past. With her talons around his torso, Jon trusted her not to drop him or pierce his ribs with her claws.

 

The she-dragon left no room to spare as she dove to mere inches above the courtyard. She gained speed before she fluttered to the top of the keep, where Viserion set him down. Jon laid on his back a moment and fought to settle his stomach. _You enjoyed that, dragon. Didn’t you?_

 

Once Jon regained his composure, Viserion made amends by tearing open the rooftop door for him.

 

“Teeth and claws,” Jon said, before he left her. “Please, Viserion, _no fire._ We can’t risk burning down the castle.”

 

He went down a small staircase, then through a narrow hallway. The castle had a different smell to it from the other time he’d been here. He crossed through a reading chamber and saw the curved hallway he was looking for. To get to the lord’s bedchamber, he had to sneak past the open door of the solar. With the hall’s sconces unlit, Jon was able to go by unseen.

 

Before he tried the chamber door, Jon put his ear up to it. He heard a man grunting and the bed creaking. _Good, he’ll be unarmed and unarmored._ Jon lifted up the torch closest to the door. At the bottom of its holder, he found a key. Lydrea had said that Lord Halys was ever neglecting his key and more often than not either left his chamber unlocked or used this hidden spare.

 

Jon unlocked the door and pushed it open. From the red glow of the fireplace, he saw the top of a bald head angled in his direction. The man was on his back. The woman straddling him had an almost dead look to her eyes. Though facing directly at Jon, she didn’t react to his intrusion.

 

Jon Whitewolf tapped his sword on the footboard.

 

“What- _Who_ the fucking hells are you?” the man shouted, tilting his head to get a look at Jon. He threw the woman off of him, sending her head-first into the stone floor. This Bastard’s Boy slid off the bed, wearing a pink tunic but naked from the waist down.

 

Ser Jon didn’t hesitate. He drove his sword through the Dreadfort man’s stomach and up into his chest cavity. Ramsay’s lackey was dead before Jon could draw the blade back out.

 

He pulled a fur off the bed and wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders. “Are you alright?”

 

She got to her feet and felt her forehead for blood, but didn’t say anything back.

 

“Please, my lady. Where are the rest of Ramsay’s men? Please, tell me where the other Bolton men are.”

 

Indifferent to Jon or the corpse at his feet, she said, _“Everywhere._ They are all around us.” Jon only then realized the woman’s age. She was elder of sixty and looked especially frail. He held out his hand to help her sit, but she didn’t take it.

 

“Rest and take what time you need,” he offered. “Mayhaps you should lock the door after I leave, my lady. But if you don’t wish to stay in this bedroom, at least stay indoors tonight.”

 

_It’s time. Claws and teeth, Viserion._

 

The castle was roused from sleep by the shrieking roar in the courtyard. Jon charged down the hall, then descended the stairs. The castle grounds turned to chaos at Viserion’s presence. Jon plodded through the snow and saw a dozen guards trying to scare the dragon off with spears and torches. He could hear a clamor somewhere nearby.

 

 _Over there,_ he thought. Jon made haste to the stables. He crept up a ladder placed against the building and peered over the edge of the thatched roof. Seven men, all standing or kneeling, were readying to fire at the blur of white, sixty yards away.

 

Viserion knew to take a hard look in Jon’s direction. Overlayed upon the little he could see with his own eyes, Ser Jon saw himself from a distance. Viserion’s view showed brightly in his mind. Jon stepped down a rung and carefully slid his sword from its scabbard. He crept up again, and the archers hadn’t noticed him.

 

_Time to prove your worth, Jon._

 

_For Lydrea’s family._

 

The dragon and the knight timed their next move. Viserion shrieked, and Jon struck with his sword. His axial swing severed the neck of the first bowman. His fellows heard only the dragon.

 

Jon Whitewolf used Viserion’s eyes to see in the darkness, but the angle of her view made it hard to coordinate his movements. He could only hack wildly at the archers. His fingers felt his steel cut through leather, muscle, and bone.

 

“My arm!” a voice screamed.

 

Jon felt a dagger deflect harmlessly off his breastplate. Within the shroud of Viserion’s sight, he paused for her to glance away from him - to the spearmen with their torches. A moment later, Viserion looked back, and Jon brought his sword down upon the head of a kneeling archer.

 

Another one yelled, “What are you doing?!”

 

Jon heaved his longsword at the man, missing his neck but burying the tip in the bowman’s temple.

 

The last two archers rolled off the side of the roof. They sprinted for the only light and the only help nearby: the spearmen trying to surround Viserion.

 

_Hear what I hear, dragon. Hear their boots in the snow._

 

Viserion swung her head around and knew precisely the direction of the last archers. She deftly lurched back, avoiding the pair of arrows.

 

 _I’m coming to help, but don’t wait for me._ Jon felt an acrid burning against the roof of his mouth. _Go ahead. You’ve been as careful as I could ask for. . ._

 

The frost-white dragon loosed a torrent of flames. She spread the fire over each of the remaining spearmen. They wailed and fell to the snow.

 

Jon caught up to the archers and slashed at the back of the first one. The other turned around, and Ser Jon stabbed him in the chest.

 

As he got close to his scaly companion, she snarled at him. Jon could only smile back at that. The gesture was utterly evocative of Ghost. _Don’t you fret, dragon. I won’t steal your supper._ Aloud, he told her, “Just give me a moment to end their suffering, Viserion.” Though the snow had doused the flames, the faces of the guardsmen were charred black. Jon slit their throats. He reminded Viserion about the meat for her atop the empty stables, and then made his way inside.

 

Jon found several cooks and pot-boys cowering in the feasting hall. He told them, “The dragon won’t harm any of you. But, you will do as I ask. Yes?”

 

The boys didn’t move, but the old cooks nodded.

 

“Good.” More comfortingly, Jon repeated, “The dragon won’t harm any of you.” He told the cooks to begin gathering everyone into the hall. Of the boys, he asked them to free Albett from his privy.

 

The boys returned before the cooks.

 

“My lord,” the young healer greeted, no worse for wear.

 

Jon asked, “If you will, please help assembling everyone, that I may speak to them.”

 

Once Albett and the cooks had done so, Jon stood beside Lord Hornwood’s seat. “I am Ser Jon Whitewolf,” he began. “Son of Ned Stark and husband to Lady Lydrea Hornwood. My lady still lives. I left her in the care of her cousins in White Harbor. I declare now that all allegiances and titles owed House Hornwood shall belong to her.” Jon scanned the gathering. “Does anyone object? Do any of you wish to speak against what I just said?” With less ferocity, he added, “Speak out now, because I will hold you to this forever afterward.”

 

Albett said, “My lady would be a fine choice, ser. None among us will argue against that.”

 

Jon nodded. “Did Ramsay Snow leave any other men loyal to him? Tell me true.”

 

The household on-whole agreed that the Bolton bastard left no others. Ser Jon sat down in Halys Hornwood’s shield-backed chair, ducking under the lacquered rack of moose antlers which crowned the seat. Then, he listened.

 

The people of the castle stated that Wyman Manderly had sent knights and White Harbor guardsmen to hold Castle Hornwood after the murder of his cousin, Lady Donella. Not long ago, that protection ended as Lord Wyman acquiesced to Roose Bolton’s demand and turned over control of the Hornwood. The Bastard’s Boys and Dreadfort men-at-arms had committed any number of atrocities during their run of the castle. Servant after servant told Jon stories of fathers mauled by dogs, and of daughters and granddaughters taken hostage. Every girl and woman who’d seen fewer than fifty namedays had been sent to the Dreadfort.

 

Most of the castle begged Jon to fly to the Bolton stronghold that very night and steal back the hostages; others appeared too scared of Jon to make any pleas.

 

“I wish that I could,” he admitted. “But, I gave my word that I would re-join the march on Winterfell. Roose Bolton and his demon of a son are there. My best chance to help your missing kin is to capture or kill both Boltons.”

 

An old seamstress protested in her quiet voice, “It mus’ be now, m’lord.”

 

He sighed. “A straight assault at the Dreadfort without first dealing with the Leech Lord is like to do more ill than good. It would endanger the hostages. With Bolton in chains or his head on a pike, his guardsmen will have little choice but to yield.”

 

Jon looked to the unsworn maester and said, “Lord Halys trusted you. He told me so, two years and several wars ago. I name you the castellan of Hornwood, until I or Lady Lydrea return.”

 

The castle’s formal maester stepped out, front and center. He argued, “My lord, that man has not even earned a real chain. Forgive me, _three links inherited from his failed maester of a father. . ._ Who is _he_ to hold a castle?”

 

“Halys Hornwood trusted him, maester. This man isn’t here by assignment, but by birth.” Jon turned to Albett. “While I’m gone, you speak with my voice.” He added, “With Lady Hornwood’s voice. Understood?”

 

The maester from the Reach stepped away, and Jon waved the Northern castellan closer. “It’s beyond late to prepare for winter, but do all you can anyway. If trouble arises, send word to Ser Wylis Manderly in White Harbor. Trust no one else. And,” he gestured toward the cooks, “provide them every raven trained for Winterfell or the Dreadfort to be plucked and roasted. I’ll take no chances that news of what happened here reaches our enemies, in case anyone in the castle proves disloyal or too afraid. We can’t have any Dreadfort soldiers come here before we’re ready for them. Aye?”

 

“Aye, ser.”

 

A feast would’ve felt out of place, so Jon initiated a more solemn meal in the hall. Many of the boys looked half-starved, and he insisted they eat their fill.

 

“Lord Jon?” one of them probed.

 

He replied that he was only a knight, and the half-trained maester tapped him on the arm. “You are wed to Lady Lydrea, no? Is she not the Lady of Hornwood.”

 

Jon arched his brow. “I suppose. . .”

 

The boy resumed, “M’lord, what of yer dragon? How’d. . . how’d you train it? How’d you hatch it? Do you ‘ave anymore dragon eggs?”

 

Another boy wondered, “Where can I get one for me self?”

 

Jon began recounting the stories of the Targaryen princess in Qarth and many of his experiences since then. As he explained the tales and answered questions, the boys kept asking if they could touch the dragon. The adult servants, on the other hand, made clear that they’d been as close to the creature as anyone should be.

 

Jon said, “You have nothing to fear from Viserion - no more than you do from me.” He was about to call out to her, but felt the dragon still feasting on the Bolton men-at-arms. Jon didn’t try to compel her and told the boys, “Viserion will be along when she’s ready.”

 

Once the household and the dragon were finished with their respective suppers, Jon opened the doors to the hall and Viserion ducked inside. He made it clear to the servants that they could touch the scales of her neck, if they wished to, but were not to get close to her tail. “Viserion doesn’t allow that.” Only the two kitchen boys were brave enough to accept Jon’s offer.

 

For the hours remaining until dawn, Jon slept in Lydrea’s former chambers and the dragon rested alone, in the middle of the feasting hall.

 

* * *

 

Ser Jon and Viserion were poised to depart the next morning, when Albett stepped out onto the battlements on top of the castle keep. “My lord?” he began. Jon nodded, and he continued, “Would you rather hear something that might not be true, or not hear it at all?”

 

Jon said he didn’t understand.

 

“They’s many and more secrets get whispered at the Citadel. From his time training there, my father heard many rumors of his day and scandals of long before. One o’ the ones he told me. . . it stands out now. And, I think I must needs tell you.”

 

“Please.”

 

“T’was years ago, of course, but my father said, umm . . .”

 

“Yes? What is it?”

 

“My lord, you must needs keep your she-dragon from ever setting down on the isle of Dragonstone. _Never,_ my lord. An’ best not go to Oldtown either.” Jon asked him to explain, and Albett said, “The archmaesters of long ago, they tried something ‘gainst the Targaryen dragons. I don’t know what they did - or even if it’s more’n rumor. But it’s said in corners of the Citadel that maesters is bad for dragons. . . and Dragonstone worse.”

 

“I don’t think that’s right,” replied Jon. “Dragonstone was like a birthplace for them, the stories say.”

 

He shook his head. “Mayhaps long, long ago. But then the maesters did something, they used to say in Oldtown.” When Jon asked him what the maesters might’ve done, Albett shrugged and said his father never heard. He added, “Don’t know if any o’ that’s true. But best I tell you keep away from Dragonstone, I think.”

 

He thanked him for the council, despite how cryptic and scattered it was. Jon didn’t focus on the man’s words, however, since other matters weighed heavier on his mind.

 

Jon climbed up on Viserion’s back. Before they set out, he said to her, “Lady Donella. . . she deserved better than she got. Let’s you and I see that Ramsay Snow never inflicts his cruelty on anyone else. Aye, dragon?”

 

Viserion roared at the dawn and sprang out into the air. Far below, Jon heard the pot-boys cheering the dragon’s name.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks goes out to Himura for his help reviewing this last clump of chapters. 
> 
> And as always, thanks to everyone who's kept up with reading and commenting on this story!


	69. Dany - The Tide is Coming In

_Prince Aegon. Another Targaryen._

 

Daenerys struggled with Tyrion Lannister’s claims. The idea that she wasn’t alone in the world was enticing. Equally powerful, however, was her fear that this supposed-prince would seek to dominate her, as Viserys had when she was young.

 

 _Ser Barristan, my valiant knight,_ Dany thought, _how dearly I wish I could hear your wisdom now._

 

She asked her prisoner, “How can I believe anything you’ve told me? The Golden Company? An invasion of Westeros. . . How can I know whether you’re lying through your teeth or not - unless I sail across half the world?”

 

“Let me pry the truth from the dwarf’s lips,” suggested the Shavepate. “Then, you shall take his life. He is your enemy. If you have learned nothing else, Your Worship, you must know what happens when you fail to slay your enemies.”

 

_You’re left with a pile of corpses._

 

“Leave me,” she ordered, looking at the Brazen Beasts who’d brought the captives. “All but the prisoners, Grey Worm, and Master Kandaq.” Dany didn’t like how the Brazen Beasts looked to the Shavepate, before they followed her orders.

 

“Ser Jorah, tell me what you think I should do with this Lannister.”

 

“Dan- _Your Grace,”_ he mumbled. “I have journeyed so far to see you, I’ve been-”

 

She interrupted, “I asked you a question.” _I’m in no mood to listen to you profess your love again._

 

“Pardons, Your Grace. The dwarf said that Illyrio sent him, but he’s a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Thus, you cannot be sure of anything he says. But, Your Grace. . . I would counsel you to retain him as a prisoner. To either his kin or his enemies, he might bring a large ransom.”

 

“And if my kin _are_ my enemies?” Tyrion Lannister asked. “What then?”

 

Having been housed at the manse of Illyrio Mopatis, Dany knew the grounds well. She questioned the dwarf, “If Magister Illyrio sent you, can you tell me of his home?”

 

“Yes,” said the hideous man. “Though, if I were to say that I was only half-drunk while there, it’d be a lie twice over.”

 

She was not amused by the turn of phrase. “Describe to me the table Illyrio sits at when he takes his supper.”

 

“Though the man rarely stops eating, he doesn’t sup at a table. The cheese-lord of Pentos takes his evening meals on a pillowed lounge, one wide enough for the ass-end of a mammoth.”

 

Daenerys wasn’t satisfied that this dwarf was, in fact, sent by Illyrio. She thought for a moment, then asked, “What jewelry does he wear about his person?”

 

Without hesitation, the scarred, little man answered, “On his fingers, the magister wears all manner of jeweled rings. There was one of dark diamond, another of opal, sapphire, an amethyst, jade. . . but I suspect the answer you want refers to what he wears around his neck.”

 

He trained his mismatched eyes on her face. Though she didn’t think she betrayed any emotion, Daenerys heard him say, “Thought so! Well, our noble purveyor of any and all things profitable loved his second wife well. He wears a silver locket around his neck. When he’s drunk and his immense appetite is sated, Illyrio is fond of opening that locket and showing the tiny portrait of his dead wife to any friends with the patience to listen.”

 

Dany remembered Illyrio Mopatis showing her that small painting inside the necklace. He claimed that he’d been a different man back then. Illyrio told her that he was still lithe and swift when he wed his second wife, not a man imprisoned by his own bulk. _He insisted that it was the death of his beloved Serra that precipitated his descent into the man he was by the time Dany and her brother came to stay within his manse. He said that he found her in a brothel in Lys, but never spoke of her like she was some whore he took to bed. He risked the wrath of the family of his late first wife, including the Prince of Pentos, when he replaced her with someone whom they saw as no higher born than a bed-slave._

 

From a man who seemed to care for naught but his wealth, Illyrio’s words of affection towards the wife he lost to plague had softened him in Dany’s eyes. _I thought it sounded so very romantic, back when he told me that story. . . I was no more than a naive child. I was not yet a queen, then. Not yet a Khaleesi._

To Dany, Jorah Mormont said, “As long as you hold the girl, he won’t dare betray you.”

 

“What girl?”

 

Ser Jorah pointed at the third prisoner. Though she was no taller than a ten year old child, her face looked older than that. She had pink cheeks, big brown eyes, and a pushed-flat nose.

 

“Penny is her name,” said Mormont. “They’ve traveled far together. Lannister has some strange fondness for her. Keep her as your hostage, and the Imp will not dare to cross you.”

 

 _Another cupbearer,_ Daenerys thought.

 

Skahaz mo Kandaq glared at Ser Jorah. The man clearly thought two of the prisoners should be executed on the spot. _And mayhaps the girl as well._

 

“I will keep all three as my hostages,” concluded the young queen. “Know that I am no weak girl. I am the blood of the dragon. Should any of you provoke me,” Dany looked at Jorah so he would know that her warning included him, “you will learn what happens when you wake a dragon.”

 

* * *

 

Daenerys Targaryen held a ceremony to name Skahaz mo Kandaq as Lord of Meereen. From one of the lower balconies of her Great Pyramid, she looked out at the thousands jostling about below her. Dany wondered how many were there simply for the loaves of bread being handed out.

 

The Shavepate knelt in front of her and swore the allegiance of himself and his lineage. Dany stepped to the railing and called to the crowd. “Lord Kandaq shall keep my laws and defend Meereen in my name. He swears to blazon justice for all my people. Any who wish to stay here will be welcome to. For everyone brave enough to cross the seas, I invite you to voyage to Westeros where I shall capture my birthright.”

 

Her people cheered, but not with the same energy they’d shown at other such gatherings. _My people are beyond weary, and we have harsher trials ahead._

 

* * *

 

Two days after the ceremony, Daenerys went with the Shavepate to judge his progress in organizing her fleet. From just beyond the harbor-side gate of Meereen, she sat atop her Silver, now reunited with the mare who’d carried Ser Barristan into battle during Dany’s absence. Behind the queen trailed her five guardians - a homespun queensguard of sorts. The elder two she trusted with her life: Strong Belwas and Rommo, the old Dothraki executioner. The three young men, Tumco Lho, Red Lamb, and Larraq the Lash, Dany only just met, but Barristan Selmy had been training them for this purpose and knighted each before his death.

 

Queen Daenerys was staring out at the ships in the bay. Standing to the left of her horse, the Shavepate and a bald-headed kinsman in his service scanned through scrolls. On her right, Missandei jotted down notes of her own.

 

By Skahaz’s memory, the Greyjoy fleet had arrived with five-and-forty warships, and also sixteen tradeships which they’d captured while enroute. The Shavepate read from his seneschal’s tally, then went on to explain that when the Unsullied killed the Iron Fleet’s men inside the city, only three Greyjoy longships had enough sailors still on board to man the oars. “Those three fled to the sea, Your Magnificence.”

 

Queen Daenerys asked, “So how many ships are left after fighting the slave masters’ blockade, Shavepate?”

 

“From the squids,” he began. The serving man whispered in Skahaz’s ear, who then concluded, “Thirty-two warships and ten trade-boats.”

 

_That’s not enough._

 

By also taking control of the ships from Meereen’s fallen Great Masters, Daenerys could set out with a far greater number of her people. “What about the family fleets of the Sons of the Harpy?”

 

“Your Worship, four hundred, thirty-”

 

 _“Four hundred?”_ she snapped, cutting him off. “In Qarth, the Thirteen own _one thousand ships._ The Tourmaline Brotherhood owns just above that number and the Spicers just under it. How is it that the _illustrious_ Great Masters of Meereen possessed only four hundred-and-some ships, when the nobles of Qarth have more than three thousand?”

 

“Qarth is the bigger city.”

 

“I’m not blind, Shavepate.”

 

Lord Kandaq narrowed his gaze and said, “As I was just about to say, before _Your Magnificence_ chose to interrupt . . . the families with the closest ties to the Harpy knew of Yunkai’s blockade before the Wise Masters arrived. Many set sail for their summer manses . . . before you stopped the rest of the families.”

 

_You imply that this is my fault._

 

She sighed and told him to give her the number she most needed, “All told, how many of my people can I bring with me?”

 

“Thirty-eight thousand.”

 

She whispered to herself, “Not nearly enough.”

 

After Dany had conquered Astapor and freed the slaves of Yunkai, her peoples numbered eighty thousand strong. The population of Meereen, when Daenerys Stormborn first rode through its gates, was around two hundred thousand. She wondered how many of them were killed by the Sons of the Harpy and how many more died from the pale mare.

 

_Whatever that number is now, I’ll never fit even close to all the people who call me mother._

 

The Shavepate said the ships would be ready to make birth seven days hence.

_Seven days. . . to choose which among my people will be left behind._

 

* * *

 

In the throne room of her Great Pyramid, petitioners formed an ill-organized crowd. Each of them had some request of her or carried an offering to present. The young queen sat on her throne and tended court, but the demands soon grated on her patience. Former slaves and servants asked to be granted the pyramids of their dead masters. She bestowed the first two on the freedmen who asked. Doing so, however, created a stir in the scores of others waiting to be heard. The line of people extended out of the court and those in the back began pushing forward.

 

Just as it seemed that the hall would turn into a stampede, the Shavepate shouted something to his men along the walls of the chamber. The Brazen Beasts drew their shortswords. They quickly pinched in on the mess of petitioners from either side of the entrance. This cut off the rush of freedmen in the back and ceased the trampling of those in front. The men and women inside the chamber spread away from the entrance and away from the Brazen Beasts.

 

Dany saw blood pooling on the marble tiles.

 

She looked at the Shavepate and before she got a word out, he said, “See, Your Worship? Just fingers and limbs. Hey!” he shouted to his men. “Drag them away and close their wounds with fire-brands.” Skahaz looked back to Dany. “See? They will all live.”

 

 _He thinks he did well by you,_ she realized.

 

“My queen,” Missandei said, catching her attention. “I would. . . maybe _this one_ should walk that line and write down the names of everyone who wishes to claim one of the pyramids? Maybe?”

 

To the Shavepate, Daenerys said, “Lord Kandaq, tell your men to escort my scribe as she walks the line and makes note of every request. Skahaz, you may dismiss each of them from my court after Missandei takes down their claims. Before I leave the city, I’ll decide who shall take possession of which pyramids.”

 

Dany listened to the subjects with requests smaller than pyramids. She did her best to be patient and just. She continued well into the afternoon hours.

 

When she finally reached her wit’s end, Daenerys Stormborn demanded that her throne room be cleared. Skahaz mo Kandaq grunted at his Beasts and Grey Worm signaled to his Unsullied, and then their soldiers emptied the hall of servants, supplicants, and everyone else. Dany shut her eyes and rubbed her temples.

 

When she opened them again, Daenerys found a pair of beetle-like eyes staring up at her. “Lord Shavepate,” she called to him. “Have a seat.”

 

At least from the chair beside her throne, the man’s ugly face wouldn’t be staring directly at her. He sat down, as he was told to, and glanced up at her over his shoulder.

 

“About the conquest of the Sunset Kingdoms, Your Magnificence . . . war is no place for a woman.”

 

She bristled at that. “I am the Mother of Dragons, Shavepate. I will take what is mine.”

 

“Not _you,”_ he huffed. She asked him what he meant, and the oily man explained, “You are out to destroy your enemies. Bring only them who can do that. Every seat you use for a worthless body is one less seat for a warrior.”

 

“So you agree with the sellswords? That I should bring only fighters and some whores to service them?”

 

“Leave the sellswords,” he said with a grunt. “They are a waste of gold. Freedmen will fight and cost you nothing.”

 

She knew he was right about that much. However, Dany wasn’t ready to forsake the rest of her subjects. “The women and the children are the ones who most need me.”

 

“And the ones you need least.”

 

That was the root of the dilemma before her. She could only bring a portion of her peoples with her to Westeros. Dany wondered what Barristan Selmy would have advised. The man was as noble as any knight could be, and yet, he was well acquainted with war.

 

Lord Skahaz was looking her over, some thought waited behind his thin lips.

 

“Speak.”

 

“Men look down on slaves for good reasons, Your Worship.”

 

She stated that she would have no slaves anywhere under her domain.

 

“Not what your lord meant,” he countered clumsily. “Slaves are ruled only by force. Their only law is the crack of a whip. Your sellswords demand whores for the journey. Do you think you’ll find more dignity among them who were slaves but a year ago?” He barked out a laugh. “Bring slave-soldiers and women in your ships, and at sunset the men will make their own whores by force.”

 

The suggestion was revolting. “They wouldn’t,” she insisted.

 

He sneered an unseemly grin and replied, “In your land, do lords make wagers with queens?”

 

“Not if they wish to remain lords for long.”

 

“Then I say this without stakes, Your Worship. Do not risk the cunts of your peasant women to the whims of freed slave-men. Leave the women behind.”

 

Daenerys thought to say that she might bring them under the guard of her Unsullied eunuchs, but instead kept her lips pressed together. _Why have a vassal city at all, if not to house and protect your people?_

 

She moved their discussion along without mentioning her female subjects. Skahaz mo Kandaq’s next criticism regarded the pit fighters. “Hizdahr zo Loraq was a vain fool. He thought his blood brawlers invincible, Barristan Whitebeard knew better. Leave them to their pits.”

 

Dany agreed. “I doubt they would conduct themselves very well cooped up on ships.”

 

Kandaq held no esteem for the Free Brothers, the company of former slaves led by Symon Stripeback. For the Stalwart Shields and Mother’s Men, he had lighter criticism, which Dany interpreted as praise from the Shavepate, or at least as close to it as he was willing to give.

 

“Lord Kandaq, gather for me the most skilled sea captains you can find. Whether they are accustomed to tradeships or warships, I don’t care. Only that they can manage the seas. Understand?”

 

He inclined his head.

 

“I shall require at least two such men for every ship in my fleet,” Dany declared. “Make use of Grey Worm’s Unsullied to keep order, should you need them, but see that you organize my soldiers into ship crews.”

 

He got to his feet but didn’t leave the room.

 

“You may go, my lord.”

 

His tiny, black eyes just continued staring at her.

 

Dany told him, “If you have something you need say to me, do so. Then carry out my orders.”

 

“What about the dragon?” he asked, all too bluntly.

 

_Drogon._

 

The largest and fiercest of her children hadn’t returned to Meereen since Dany led Jhago’s khalasar back to her city.

 

“Near the harbor but outside the city walls, have your men build a table-shaped altar. Make it at least twenty feet high. Slaughter some sheep on it and let their blood spill freely. The smell should be enough to entice Drogon.” She thought for a moment, before adding, “Also build a bonfire beside it with heavy smoke, so he can see it from far away.”

 

“It will be done, Your Magnificence.”

 

Queen Daenerys retired to the privacy of her chambers atop the Great Pyramid of Meereen.

 

 _When will I get back my children?_ Dany wondered. _To go forward I must go back. To go north, I must go south. To reach the west, I must go east. And to touch the light, I must pass beneath the shadow._

 

She marveled once more at how unhelpful Quaithe’s advice was. The shadowbinder might have told Daenerys how to avoid danger or how to best protect her followers, but the woman chose not to. Dany tried to remember the rest of the masked woman’s words.

 

_She warned of the pale mare, I recall that. But she didn’t tell me what she meant. How did she expect me to protect my city from plague without knowing what the pale mare was?_

 

 _Beware the kraken and a dark flame,_ Dany remembered hearing. A kraken was like a squid, she knew. _Mayhaps Quaithe meant to warn of the Greyjoy fleet._

 

“A dark flame?” she asked aloud. _That slave-priest,_ Daenerys understood after the fact. _He bewitched my Rhaegal and sent him west._

 

 _That isn’t entirely true,_ Dany realized. _He was interrupted and murdered by a dusky whore._

 

“Did you foresee that, Quaithe? How does she fit into your prophecies?” _Did your shadow spells not tell you of her, I wonder? Did you fail to see the real thief who stole my dragon?_

 

Dany thought of Rhaegal’s brother, who’d been missing for much longer. She didn’t know of any shadowbinding or blood magic that took place close enough to her cream-colored dragon to catch Viserion in a spell. _It’s been so long since I last saw him. I wonder how much he’s grown. I wonder about the changes to his delicate face and golden horns, if his sweetly-pitched howl turned into a thundering call, and whether his scales darkened as he grew - like Rhaegal’s had._

 

_I miss you, my lost children. I endeavor to see you both again._

 

She determined to chase after the man the dark priest called, “Crow’s Eye,” the one who sent the dusky whore to steal Rhaegal with her blood sacrifice. Unearthing that man could lead her to Rhaegal. It was the only lead she had for finding either of her lost creatures. _By the time I recover Rhaegal and feed the thief’s flesh to Drogon, mayhaps I’ll discover who took Viserion._

 

Dany thought of the perilous voyage ahead of her and about the man she truly wished could be with her tonight. She paced across her apartments and picked up the Myrish dagger on her mantel. _He left me his golden ladies, before I sent him as a hostage to the Yunkai’i._

 

_I sent him to his death, my wild rogue._

 

Though the light of day still shown through the windows, Dany laid down in her bed.

 

_Daario the brash sellsword. Drogo, my sun and stars. Rhaegar, my regal brother. Ser Barristan. Ser Willem Darry and our red door. . ._

 

She wrapped herself in the fine linens and hoped for the day when a man she held dear would not die just as she needed him most.

 

* * *

 

Once the provisions and the Great Masters’ gold were loaded onto the ships, Dany stepped onto the lead vessel. Drogon, the only one of her children still close at hand, had returned for the sheep set out for him. Dany didn’t try to catch or chain him, knowing that would only drive him away. Instead she’d been keeping the platform stocked with sheep until her ships and freedmen soldiers were ready. On this day, Dany merely made certain that Drogon saw her step onto the lead boat. She trusted him to fly after her and to land on deck whenever he wished, as he had when they set sail from Qarth.

 

The black dragon, whose wingspan now cast a massive shadow, did just as she’d hoped. _The only children I shall ever have. . ._ Queen Daenerys Targaryen closed her eyes, tilted her face toward the sun, and embarked on a long-due journey.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Winterfell.


	70. Jon - Winterfell

Six leagues south of Castle Cerwyn and about ten leagues from Winterfell, the host split into ranks. Ser Jon and Viserion, having days earlier rejoined the army, went with Symond Templeton and Marwyn Belmore, each of whom were taking command of about two thousand men-at-arms. Their split of the army crossed the river and trudged northeast, while the larger split kept its course.

 

When they stopped to rest their mounts and to pick the snow from the rails of their horse-sleighs, Jon spoke to the two commanders. “Castle Cerwyn isn’t far from us. Lord Medger used to be the closest bannermen to Winterfell. If we’re here,” he said, drawing a circle in the snow, “then Axe Hill, where their castle and township sit, would be here. We can ride wide around it, which’ll also keep us out of sight of Wintertown, and make camp _\- if Winterfell’s right there -_ to the northeast of the castle. That’ll put us about halfway between King’s Gate and the North Gate.”

 

Templeton asked, “Ser Marwyn, which gate will you want: the one that might get some trouser-pissing Freys or the one that’ll be closest to the dragon in flight?”

 

“Either,” he offered with trepidation.

 

“Then I’ll take King’s Gate on the east wall,” Ser Symond decided. “I’ve had more time to grow accustomed to the creature, and I am leading mostly mine own men. They’re more likely to stand their ground when I tell them to, than your mutt-bred corps from all over the Vale.”

 

Jon nodded in agreement. _The last thing we need is our own soldiers panicking._ He offered, “You and your Valemen have done as well in snow as I could’ve hoped.”

 

“Strongsong and the Eyrie are no green, grassy plains,” said Marwyn Belmore, as snow continued to fall all around them.

 

“If we can keep this pace,” Jon resumed, “we’ll reach where I want us to camp in only three days.”

 

Ser Marwyn asked in response, “That'll leave us a five day wait?”

 

Jon and Symond nodded.

 

The lords from the Three Sisters were, like Jon’s force, maneuvering at a distance from Winterfell. Along their route, two thousand men would stop and make camp to the south of the castle. Lords Borrell and Longthorpe were to continue into the Wolfswood with the main strength of their host, close to eight thousand infantry.

 

“And on the day we all planned for,” Ser Jon drew an slash in the snow, “we mount our attack.”

 

* * *

 

Though Jon’s encampment was too far to be seen from the castle walls, the Knight of Ninestars organized it into a tightly arranged, temporary barracks of tents. This helped to shelter them from the bite of the North’s winds. It looked nothing like a conventional siege line. But of course, they were lying in wait before attacking, not trying to starve out Roose Bolton.

 

Jon sat in his shelter, which was no more than a collection of pelts stitched together into several tarps and hung from ropes between two trees. _None of the tents could accommodate you, could they, Viserion?_ The dragon snorted and, with reluctance, permitted Jon to continue inspecting her claws.

 

Whereas Ghost’s demeanor was able to calm anything roiling inside his master, Viserion’s presence had a way of stirring up Jon’s emotions. He missed his direwolf, but felt proud knowing that Ghost was keeping an eye on Halya on his behalf. To the dragon, he said, “I know waiting is no easy thing for you.” Jon ran the woodworking adze over a notch in Viserion’s talon. “When I first saw you, you were so tiny. And your scales weren’t so white. More like a milky cream. A fitting color for a hatchling, Viserion, but frosty white suits-”

 

In a sudden movement, the dragon’s head shot up from the pelt-covered floor.

 

“I hear it too.”

 

Outside, Jon found an ambush in progress. He drew his sword.  _How did Bolton find the camp? We’re being attacked from the rear of our ranks. How did he circle around behind us?_

 

“Viserion!” Ser Jon shouted, then saw a stream of fire burst through the top of their shelter, scorching it. The white dragon leapt out of the makeshift tent and roared like Jon had never before heard. Men from both sides of the skirmish froze. She bound through the snow drifts, leaving in her wake a trail of melting claw-prints and breathy vapors.

 

An armored man in a pink cloak clung to the reins of his panicking horse.

 

Viserion was upon him in an instant. She caught his helm in her black teeth. The dragon swung her tail to one side, then snapped it in the opposite direction. The force of the whiplash traveled up her tail, over her body, and reached her serpentine neck. Her head snapped back with such speed that Viserion tore the knight’s head from his neck, while his body remained in the stirrups.

 

Jon squirmed in his boots at the sight of a length of spine hanging out of the helm. The soldier’s body listed to one side, then fell from the fleeing horse. _That’s not a flayed man on his surcoat. It’s not pink, either. It’s purple._

 

He sprinted to his dragon’s side, longsword in hand. “Yield!” Jon yelled to the attackers. Viserion punctuated the command by bending her neck and flinging the dead man’s helmet - head, spine, and all - in the direction of the knight’s horror-stricken comrades.

 

Almost in unison, the soldiers threw down their arms. Many of the Valemen did so too. With one side of the attack surrendering, the fighting on the outskirts of the camp didn’t last much longer.

 

“Show me to your lord,” Jon said to one of the men-at-arms who surrendered to Viserion.  
  


The greybeard rose from the ground. He was staring past Jon and still trembling at the sight of the dragon, though she had paced away.

 

“Did Bolton have out your tongue?” Jon hollered at him.

 

The old soldier shook his head in reply. He directed Jon to the north-facing flank. They trudged through the snow, passing men of the Vale who were gathering up the swords and maces of their foes.

 

“Ser!”

 

Jon saw Belmore waving at him. When he reached him, the man handed over a rolled up banner.

 

Ser Jon unfurled it. “What coat-of-arms is this?”

 

Ser Marwyn wore a grin and pointed at a knight being restrained by two Valemen. “Have a look!” he said cheerfully.

 

The captive was still struggling against their grip, though he was short a sword and had little hope of breaking free. Blood ran down his face, and Jon guessed that his nose was broken. About his shoulders hung a cloak of common pelt. Beneath it, his armor was black with that same, unfamiliar sigil on his breast.

 

“When did you first spot us?” Jon demanded to know. “Did your lord come out with you, or is Bolton still hiding in the castle?”

 

The knight was shocked. _“Bolton?”_ His eyes were full of contempt. Blood ran into his mouth and he had to spit it back out. “Enough!” the man shouted. “Unhand me!” In the frigid air, it looked like he was exhaling smoke.

 

Jon nodded at the pair of Strongsong soldiers, and they released the commander.

 

“I know your look, but I don’t know you,” said this captain from his knees. “Who are you?”

 

Jon replied, “I’ll answer that question after you do.”

 

“The rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms,” he stated, “by all the laws of the realm.”

 

From behind Jon’s back, Ser Marwyn announced, “Stannis Baratheon, King of Nothing and Less.”

 

_Stannis?_

 

“My lord,” Jon inquired, “what are you doing here?”

 

The displaced Lord of Dragonstone posed, “You said that you would give me your name.”

 

“I did,” he agreed. “Ser Jon Whitewolf, born Jon Snow, Lord Eddard Stark’s natural son. Now, explain yourself, my lord.”

 

 _“Your Grace_ would serve better,” the blood-drenched man grumbled. “Why would Ned Stark’s bastard be protecting Bolton? Have you no sense of duty?”

 

“What?”

 

Baratheon persisted, “There’s wickedness in bastard blood, aye, but what you’re doing here goes in the face of all conceivable honor. It-”

 

Jon interrupted, “We’re not bloody _protecting him._ My men are readying our attack.”

 

“Attack?” Stannis Baratheon cursed the stupidity of his scouts and said that they’d thought the camp was part of Bolton’s army.

 

Jon replied, “Mayhaps then we aren’t enemies, my lord.”

 

“All who refuse to bow to their rightful king are my enemies.”

 

“The North has no king.” Jon fought off Lord Baratheon’s argument, saying, “Our allegiance to the Iron Throne ended when your false nephew murdered my father. The lords of this land took my brother for the King in the North. No, my lord, you are no king of ours, not after all your brother failed to do. Not after all that happened in King’s Landing . . . and at the Twins.”

 

“The Red Wedding was no work of mine. Robert was a fool, I’ll not deny it. But what did he do to merit this, this treason of yours?”

 

Jon told the men to help Stannis to his feet, then offered, “Let’s you and I have a private word.” Before Jon showed Stannis to one of the nearby tents, he asked, “Do I have your solemn promise that you’ll attempt no escape or further fight, or must I bind your hands?”

 

“Not tonight, I won’t. I swear it.”

 

Inside the closest tent, Jon looked about for a moment, before finding a scrap of leather. He offered it, saying, “This is no silk handkerchief, my lord, but it’ll serve to wipe the blood off your face.”

 

Stannis accepted it, but returned no word of thanks. Jon offered the courtesy of a fire by arranging wood-shavings and kindling inside an iron bucket then using his torch to light it. Baratheon sat close to the makeshift hearth and asked, “What is it you wish to talk about, ser?”

 

Though Jon was thankful for the use of his preferred title, he couldn’t return the gesture. In the firelight, he stated, “I owe you no fealty, my lord.”

 

He could hear the man grinding his teeth together.

 

“By what right do you deny my claim to the Iron Throne?” questioned Stannis. “Tommen is not of my brother’s seed. He’s no Baratheon.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“Cersei Lannister bedded her brother. None of her children are trueborn. They have no claim.” More to himself than to Jon, he uttered, “When I freely serve men the truth. . .”

 

As Stannis Baratheon trailed off, Jon waited - making sure the man was finished speaking. “My lord, I told you that I do not care. I didn’t say that I don’t believe you. In fact, I know enough to agree with you about the Lannisters. And still, I don’t care about your claim.”

 

Stannis demanded an explanation.

 

“I fight for my trueborn sister’s claim to the North, as does the army your men surrendered to.”

 

“Refusing your duty to your king, it’s akin to lending arms to his enemy. And do you not realize the Red Wedding was the work of House Lannister?”

 

Ser Jon’s expression turned sour. “The North will have the heads of the betrayers and oathbreakers. I took Walder Frey’s head myself. My dragon turned the Twins to a ruin.” Stannis seemed almost pleased. “But I have no desire to see Her Grace caught in a struggle in the Crownlands.”

 

“By law-”

 

“Please, my lord, I’m getting to that. Sansa Stark is the Queen of the North and the Trident. All that concerns me is finding justice for my family, securing the North, bolstering the riverlords, and surviving winter. The Iron Throne? If whoever takes it treats us as one would a friend, he’ll have naught but peace from the queen and her bannermen.”

 

“A king has no friends, only subjects and traitors.”

 

Jon answered, “Mayhaps you are friendless, _Your Grace,_ but that isn’t a choice I’d recommend. Most of all, not when you have neither the largest, nor the best army in Westeros.”

 

Stannis pressed his lips together. He barely opened them to curse, “They are the Kingslayer’s bastards.”

 

“Is it that you’re forgetful, my lord, or weren’t you listening in the first place? I said, _‘I believe you_ about Tommen.’ If you can summon patience enough to curb your fury, I’ll finish explaining.”

 

“Speak,” the man said, seeming no calmer.

 

“Tommen Waters has the biggest army, the one from Mace Tyrell. As for the best, I claim that my Vale knights and scattered Northmen make for the best fighters with snow falling over the Seven Kingdoms. How many men do you have, Lord Baratheon? Is it even a thousand?”

 

“I command more than that.”

 

“Fine,” Jon replied. “I’m not trying to argue figures. But it means something, my lord, that your ranks could be mistaken for only one thousand men. Mine couldn’t be and neither could Lord Tyrell’s.”

 

“Tell me, ser, what then _is_ important enough that you wish to argue over it? Why not take my head already, if that’s what you mean to do.”

 

Jon Whitewolf took a breath, trying not to show any frustration with this half-mad, would-be king. “I want to impress upon you what’s not important, my lord. Being Robert Baratheon’s brother makes no matter.” For emphasis, Jon repeated the statement. He paused, but was surprised that Stannis didn’t try to interrupt. “Your brother was only king because he defeated his enemies in battle. Your brother, my father, and Jon Arryn decided who among them would be king. They could’ve chosen anyone in the Seven Kingdoms and they chose Robert Baratheon.

 

“Your claim, like King Robert’s, is rooted in strength of arms, nothing more. It wasn’t the rules of succession that felled Rhaegar Targaryen on the Trident. It was a warhammer.”

 

Lord Baratheon’s jaw shifted as he resumed grinding his back teeth. “What would you have me do? Flee into exile? Do you think I want this battle? It’s because of my duty that I fight. I am Robert’s only heir.”

 

Jon shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

 

“I speak only the truth,” Stannis insisted.

 

“You speak a disfigured version of it,” he challenged. “A man can be honest and courteous at the same time. In fact, the traits often go together.”

 

As an aside, Ser Jon added, “This conversation would be different if I was your hostage and depended upon _your_ opinion of _me._ However, you are my prisoner, Stannis Baratheon. Whether it was an honest blunder or purposeful attack, you rode against my fellows and likely killed some of them. I would be within my right to execute all of you as my enemies.

 

“You can speak to me honestly, Lord Stannis, without being an insufferable malcontent.”

 

Jon stood up, deciding that it was past time that spoke with Ser Symond and learned of how the men had fared in the skirmish. But before he reached the flap, Jon Whitewolf heard, “I expected the blood of Ned Stark to show more honor. What would your lord father think of this?”

 

Jon turned around and stared at this destitute king warming his fingers over a bucket-fire.

 

“Your Grace, for all your harping upon claims and law and rights, have you once remembered that the Iron Throne, itself, is no more than a chair forged for the man who conquered all his rivals? If you think about it, is a claim ever stronger than the steel enforcing it?”

 

* * *

 

Stannis Baratheon wasn’t alone when Jon later returned. Ser Belmore had allowed the man’s squire to attend him. Ser Jon wasn’t surprised to see the boy, but Lord Baratheon’s smile caught him off-guard. “Is something amusing, my lord?”

 

Stannis replied, “I just learned that your men still cannot breach the castle walls.”

 

“We’re waiting to coordinate our attack, not running scared.”

 

“Nonetheless, I’ve already done what you haven’t, no matter your dragon.” Jon waited for Lord Baratheon’s explanation. “My men are inside the castle.”

 

“How?”

 

“Bolton and his bastard are fools,” Lord Stannis informed him. “They sent their Freys and most their Manderly men to attack me on two fronts. Mors Umber dispatched a dozen Frey knights before they were out of sight of Winterfell. Pitfalls under the snow. Thus the White Harbor soldiers met me first.

 

“They approached flying truce banners. They swore their liege’s fealty to me and presented letters proving as much.” He waved over his shivering squire. “Bryen, let him read it.”

 

Jon accepted the scroll.

 

* * *

 

_Your Grace. I am not dead. The life of Lord Manderly’s son hinged on tricking Tywin Lannister and the Freys. By faking my execution he got his son back alive. I said I understand. I said my king would too. Lord Wyman swears that if I use my old smuggler’s skill he will bend the knee to his rightful king. Stannis Baratheon. I set sail tonight. Theon Turncloak did not slay the Stark children. The boys escaped. He killed others in their place. I head for Skagos. I look for the younger one. If I die in the attempt please deliver the letter I wrote to Devan and the ones for Marya and my youngest boys._

_Davos Seaworth_

_Hand of the True King and Lord Smuggler of the Realm_

* * *

 

 

Wyman Manderly had left White Harbor before ever learning the outcome of Seaworth’s mission. Ser Wylis had introduced him to Jon only briefly. _I thanked him as best I could. Words don’t exist sufficient to speak my thanks. For his part in returning those who I thought were lost to me. . ._ Jon felt that Lord Davos understood.

 

He handed the letter back to the squire and expected questions about how the experience on Skagos had gone.

 

“Even Lord Manderly sees me as his king,” Baratheon announced, instead. “I still expect you to swear me fealty.”

 

“Your Lord Hand survived, you know.”

 

“Ser Davos?”

 

“Aye,” Jon assured. It was a curious thing to see something resembling concern cover this Stormlord’s face. “He remains in the New Castle with Ser Wylis Manderly. And his voyage was a success. More than even the Manderlys expected.” Jon looked down at the bucket fire. “My wife and daughter were on Skagos too. When Lord Seaworth got back with word of my brother, Rickon, Wylis sent his cousin to retrieve them with a proper fleet.”

 

Jon watched the face of this hard man. His didn’t look joyful or even happy, but _contented._ “Styling himself ‘Lord Smuggler of the Realm’. . . oh how that would tweak the noses of my proud lords.”

 

Rather than linger on that matter, however, Stannis resumed his iron exterior. “When Hosteen Frey arrived afoot, my knights, my savage warriors, and the mermen-come-over slaughtered them. We then spent six days chasing Frey deserters through the snows. I dressed my four hundred best in Frey armor and sent them back to Winterfell, with half the White Harbor soldiers and my sword.”

 

“Your sword?” Jon wondered.

 

“As proof of my death.” His tone implied the reason should be obvious.

 

“What’s next in your plan, my lord?”

 

“Arrive at Winterfell. My men will throw open the gates.”

 

“Clever,” Jon said reflexively.

 

“This is not my first war.”

 

Ser Jon then asked, “Is there any risk that Bolton has discovered the switch?”

 

Stannis Baratheon pressed his mouth tight and shook his head. “Below Hosteen, Bolton’s not like to know the face of any common Frey foot-man.”

 

“Good, my lord,” Jon said. “Will your men still carry out the plan? Do you need to signal that it’s still on?”

 

“My men will do their duty. If they took me for dead, they’d _still_ open the gates.”

 

“Very good,” he responded. “My attack doesn’t require help from your spies, but open gates won’t hurt.” Before leaving the shelter, Jon said, “Lord Stannis, see that your squire gets something hot to drink. Even just hot water. It won’t get any warmer after nightfall.”

 

* * *

 

Dusk was arriving earlier each day, but Jon made sure to begin his part in the siege an hour before sunset. He donned his armor and affixed Viserion’s saddle.

 

_It’s time, my friend. Tonight we take back Winterfell._

 

The dragon ran through the snow, then sprang into the air. She fought a crosswind to gain altitude. Circling once around the fortress, Jon and Viserion made ready to announce themselves to their enemies.

 

The she-dragon’s roar was loud enough to bludgeon the ears of anyone inside the castle, no matter the winter winds.

 

_Give them a moment to come out and see._

 

Jon encouraged her, and Viserion breathed her fire above the castle. The wind spread the flame out wide then doused it in frigid air.

 

 _There,_ Jon thought to her, but of course she’d already seen them. Knight and dragon needed no time to agree, without discussion, to torching the archers on the east wall. Viserion tilted her wings and gained speed, descending at their enemies. Jon felt the dragon’s warning and ducked between her shoulder blades, dodging the path of an arrow.

 

Fire burst from her lungs. The skin on the bowmen’s faces sizzled. Their cloaks caught alight. Jon felt Viserion trying to share his thoughts and better smell the roasting flesh. _We’re too far, my nose isn’t that much better than yours._ Viserion swung around for another pass, but the last of the bowmen had leapt from the wall to the snow a hundred feet below. Jon didn’t know if they survived.

 

The dragon landed beside the guardhouse on the East Gate wall. People scrambled or froze in fear as they stared up. Most were right next to the Great Keep’s doors. The covered bridge from the keep to the armory was gone. Jon, instead, asked Viserion to fly to the guest hall next to it. He needed a moment to gather his thoughts and remember what he’d planned to say.

 

“I am Ned Stark’s bastard! This is Viserion! We are here for vengeance! Flee or burn!”

 

The dragon and her rider swooped low, landing on the snow-covered courtyard. They yelled together and burned everyone in sight. In that instant, their call was joined by half-a-hundred wails. The men cowering behind the Great Keep’s doors fared no better. Viserion burned right through, turning oak to ash.

 

Jon had to rein her in; Viserion wished to burn everyone inside. _Not all are our enemies._

 

Viserion used the claws on her wings to climb half way up the side of the keep. With Jon still in the saddle, she leapt off of it and returned to the sky. As planned, they kept to just inside the East Gate.

 

More men emerged on the walls, frightened and desperately loosing arrows. The she-dragon showed them what burning felt like. When an archer ducking behind a battlement stood up unscathed, Viserion angled back and caught him in her hind claws. From a hundred feet in the air, she tossed him to his death.

 

 _Well done,_ Jon thought.

 

Viserion’s keen eyes cut through the falling snow to see the Hunter’s Gate open and soldiers fleeing to the Wolfswood. _Let them run,_ Jon reminded her. _Chasing them isn’t our role tonight._ She didn’t try to fight him in that and perched on the eastern wall.

 

As they did, he felt how hungry she was. _Let’s go down._

 

Viserion combed over the bodies in the entryway of the Great Keep for the choicest meat, and Jon slid from the saddle. As she began to feast on a soldier she’d earlier burned, he peeked inside the doorway.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Jon said back, as he felt her cautioning him. _Most of them ran from the keep._ “I’ll be fine,” he repeated to himself, and Jon then stepped inside his old home for the first time in what felt like many lifetimes.

 

* * *

 

With his dragon-sword in hand, Jon threw open to doors to the lord’s chambers on the highest floor of the Great Keep. Roose Bolton wasn’t there. In his father’s old bedroom, Jon saw only a woman.

 

He recognized the features of her face. “You’re his Frey bride, aren’t you?” Ser Jon questioned. “Where’s your husband?”

 

She didn’t answer.

 

“Has he fled and left you behind? With no guards?” He pointed at her swelling stomach. “Is that his babe inside you?”

 

“Please,” she begged.

 

“You are a Frey _and_ a Bolton. That’s more than enough reason to kill you.”

 

Ser Jon thought of his father, who would never approve of this. _I can’t kill a woman with child. Not in this room, most of all._

 

“I know your mother,” he told her instead. “Lady Mariya Darry, she’s a better woman than your sister, Gatehouse Ami, and a better woman than you, I bet.”

 

“Where is. . ?”

 

“I allowed Lady Mariya to go to Runestone in the Vale, along with your two sisters and some other kin.” Jon let his sword arm hang loosely at his side. “If you wish for any chance to see your mother again, tell me _\- right now -_ where your husband is.”

 

* * *

 

As Jon left the Great Keep, the wind collected snow from the castle yard and flew it against one side of his face. Fat Walda said her husband and all his lords had been in Winterfell’s Great Hall, and Jon walked over the packed down snow to see if Bolton was still there.

 

When he reached the shut doors, he called out, “Roose Bolton, you’re a coward and an oathbreaker! Come out here and die.”

 

No one responded.

 

Jon pulled at the high arching doors and found them braced. _Please, Viserion. Robb’s killer is inside._

 

She obliged.

 

Ser Jon the Whitewolf kicked in the half-charred wood. Inside, a battle was already over. Hundreds of men were strewn atop tables and in aisles, with swords still plunged into their bodies.

_What in the bloody hells happened here?_

 

Jon looked across the hall. A Bolton banner was draped over the back of the smooth-stone throne of Winterfell. _Father’s seat._ Standing just in front of it was a pink-lipped, beardless man. His hair was brown and thin. His eyes were so pale, the man looked almost blind.

 

_The Leech Lord._

 

Roose Bolton’s silent stare was a frightening sight. His ice-white eyes looked otherworldly, like they could see through a man’s skin and into his soul. Beside Bolton, Lord Wyman Manderly was positioned, half sitting and half fallen down, on the stone steps - with Bolton’s black dirk pointed at his neck.

 

Jon summoned both his courage and his anger. “Put away that dagger. Take out your sword.”

 

He waited for the man to do something more, to attack or bargain. Lord Bolton was motionless. Jon walked forward, stepping over the Dreadfort and Barrowton and White Harbor men who’d fought and killed each other. A dozen bloodied victors stepped forward and formed rank in front of Roose Bolton.

 

“I’ll kill the lot of you,” the young knight assured them.

 

“You may try.”

 

“Soon, I won’t have to,” he said. “Stannis Baratheon’s spies opened the gates for my host of Valemen. All your soldiers, save for these few, fled the castle. You lost, Bolton.”

 

The man showed neither fear nor anger. “Come for me, if you can.”

 

Ser Jon readied for a fight, but Viserion rounded into the hall and pushed past him. She roared and took no chances with the Dreadfort men-at-arms. Burning alive, they screamed and staggered blindly. After half a minute of chaos and pain, only Bolton and Lord Wyman on the raised dais were left unharmed.

 

Roose Bolton pressed his thin, pink lips together. He looked more amused than anything else.

 

Jon hated how little Bolton seemed to care. “This is no game.”

 

“Isn’t it?” the Leech Lord responded. “That’s just-”

 

Suddenly, Lord Wyman caught hold of the dagger. With one hand on the grip and the other on the blade, he wrenched it forward. Manderly threw his weight down the steps, thumping to the stone floor and forcing the dirk from Bolton’s hand.

 

The Lord of the Dreadfort barely reacted. Bolton pushed back his pink cloak, straightened his black chainmail, and freed his sword. “Grant me a moment to put on my helm. That would be the honorable thing.”

 

“You deserve no honor from me,” Jon told him.

 

“Your father would allow me that.”

 

“Not after what you did to Robb.” Jon closed the visor of his own helm and paced forward with both hands on his longsword. Roose Bolton circled to the side and tossed his steel from one hand to the other.

 

_For Robb._

 

He narrowed on his enemy and swung at his neck. Bolton deflected the cut. He jabbed his dark steel at Jon’s shoulder, testing the joint of his armor. The black sword caused no harm, and Bolton stepped back.

 

Jon feigned low and stabbed high. His foe couldn’t avoid the sword, but ducked enough that instead of his throat, Jon bloodied only Bolton’s left ear.

 

Roose drew away. He touched the minor wound, then sucked the blood off his finger.

 

_Kill him. He betrayed Robb._

He darted at Bolton. In a flurry of strikes, Jon cut through the black ringmail at his enemy’s arm, shoulder, and hip. Roose Bolton showed no sign he felt pain, even as he bled through his armor. Jon’s silvery plate held sturdy against Bolton’s counters.

 

Lord Bolton swung up, and steel flashed an inch from Jon’s eyes. His sword dug into a fitting on the side of Jon’s helm, but didn’t pierce through.

 

Viserion joined the fight then. The dragon gnashed at their enemy, but Bolton jumped away from her teeth. She hissed her displeasure. Jon didn’t tell her back down. _This man earned his death._ Viserion blew a ball of fire at him.

 

Bolton leapt to the side, angling so Jon was between him and the dragon. He discarded his burning cloak and warned, “Wish for me to slay your pet, Jon Snow? I’ll make a new cloak of its skin.”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Jon growled. He closed in again.

 

Bolton, calm and ready, blocked his every slice. Jon felt his fury at his brother’s killer grow. His strikes grew wilder.

 

Roose spun around and caught the neck of Jon’s helm. He yanked at the damaged fitting and broke loose one side of Jon’s faceplate. Still on his guard, Ser Jon threw off the helm.

 

Quick as a cat, Bolton flicked his boot and sent a dead man’s knife into the air. He caught it and made to throw it. Jon flinched. Bolton then threw it for real.

 

The knife hit its mark and cut Jon about his eye. The tip would have pierced his eyelid, but instead the knife hit with its edge. Jon Whitewolf felt the sting, and a line of blood ran above and below his eye.

 

Bolton dodged a bite from Viserion. He rounded on Jon and raised the back edge of his blade. Ser Jon wasn’t fast enough in defense. Before Lord Bolton could drive his steel into the side of Jon’s neck, Viserion loosed her fire at the both of them.

 

Jon felt the searing heat against the side of his head and fell away.

 

He heard a hissing whine and turned back.

 

Roose Bolton was on his knees. Viserion had burned through the man’s face. From his right ear past his nose, Bolton’s skin was torched. His lips had burned off. His right cheek was gone. Jon could see the wretch’s rooted teeth clinging to black, crusted gums. A hissing emanated from his throat, as did a trail of smoke. Bolton’s right eye had melted, and his forehead was blackened bone.

 

Jon threw off his gauntlets and felt the side his own face for similar horrors. He stung his fingers on his still burning hair. Jon smothered the small flame out with his palm, then felt for worse.

 

 _I’m alright,_ he realized. His skin was tender, but his face wasn’t sloughing off his skull.

 

Ser Jon gathered himself and raised his sword over the hideous Roose Bolton. “Any final words?”

 

The sounds from this lipless, tongueless man’s burnt throat didn’t pass for speech.

 

He aimed his longsword. “Tell Lord Frey, Jon Snow sends his regards.”

 

His shining steel cleaved through the burned bone and split Lord Bolton’s head in half.

 

“. . . may the old gods never grant you peace.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please post any reactions or questions you have. They're like writing-fuel. Thanks and cheers!


	71. Jon - Mending Winterfell

The castle felt devoid of life until the Vale lords led their soldiers through the gates. Jon watched as best he could from the foot of the armory.

 

He and Ser Symond Templeton had decided before the assault to release Lord Stannis, who lent his knights to Ser Marwyn Belmore to help in the ambush. With the fight over, Baratheon was ordering his men to drag the bodies inside the castle walls, likely to assess which enemies were dead. Lord Wyman’s personal guards were set apart, as were the Valemen who fell in the ambush. The rest were stripped. “For coin and cloth, says the king,” relayed Stannis’s knights. Gathering up the dead men’s steel went without saying.

 

On another battlefield, Jon and the others might have made an attempt to bury the men-at-arms and preserve the highborn for the silent sisters’ care. But it was winter and these were Bolton’s followers. Purple, naked bodies were tossed in a pile. In a small mercy, the snow continued to fall into the night, holding at bay the rotting of the corpses. None but the dragon knew what to do with them, and Viserion thought only of the ones she meant to eat. No one said a word to Jon against it.

 

He looked around, taking everything in. _Am I truly home?_ Winterfell was in shambles even besides all the dead. So much of what Jon remembered was gone: Hullen’s stables, Farlen’s kennels, the glass gardens, most everything not made from stone.  

 

“That fucking Ramsay,” he cursed.

 

Jon trudged around the corpses and went to the gathering room on the first floor of the Great Keep.

 

“Ser!” greeted Lord Manderly, getting to his feet.

 

Jon addressed Lord Godric Borrell instead, “Did we kill Ramsay Snow? I want to see his face. I need to be sure.”

 

“I wouldn’t know him, even had I killed him myself.”

 

“You have my leave to search to pile,” Lord Baratheon offered to Jon from beside the hearth.

 

He turned to the others. “Did our men see him? The Bastard of Bolton?”

 

“I don’t know, ser.”

 

“The battle was dark.”

 

“Anyone?”

 

No one had much of an answer.

 

“Lord Manderly,” Ser Jon said. “The men you sent to go over to Stannis's side were with us for the ambush. You will order them to take torches and look over the face of every dead man. Assign those who would know the sight of Ramsay Snow.”

 

“What about the dragon?” asked Ser Ormund Wylde, one of Lord Stannis's knights.

 

Jon thought for moment. “The bastard was big and lean, right? Viserion started in on the fat ones first, she prefers them.”

 

Many recoiled in distaste. “I didn’t mean. . .” Wylde’s voice trailed.

 

“The rest of you,” resumed Jon Whitewolf, “on your feet. _Now.”_ Everyone but Stannis obeyed, and Jon ignored the dissenter. “Our fight isn’t over until we search the castle.”

 

He began dividing the men and assigning buildings to search. They drew their weapons and did as he said. He told others to clear the bodies out of the Great Hall, under Lord Wyman’s supervision. “We need the hall habitable, my lord. After nightfall in winter is no time to be short a warm chamber.”

 

As Jon strode through the grounds and oversaw the search, he kept expecting to see familiar faces. It stung him to suspect that they were all dead, but he didn’t have the luxury of grieving just then. _I can’t let Ramsay escape._

 

* * *

 

Ser Jon stepped inside the Great Hall and took off his gloves. He touched his hands to his numb face. Men in chainmail were pushing mops across the floor, in an effort to swab the pools of blood toward the door.

 

“Where is Ramsay Snow?” Jon questioned the first man he recognized.

 

“He wasn’t found,” stated Hother Whoresbane from his bench.

 

“I grasp that, Umber. I’m wondering where he’s gone to.”

 

“He has to make his way to the Dreadfort,” said Wyman Manderly as his hand was being tended to. “But, he might not travel there first.”

 

Lord Sunderland came over and said, “It was no easy thing traveling here from White Harbor. Could this Bolton bastard even return to his castle alive?”

 

“Someone knows,” Jon insisted. “Someone saw how he left the castle when we had ambushes set at every gate.” He felt an urge to sprint out into the snowfall after Ramsay. He understood, though, that rash action would be foolish. He had thousands of soldiers and hundreds of prisoners to deal with and couldn’t ignore them to chase after a single man, no matter that the man was Ramsay Snow.

 

_Patience, Jon._

 

Old Ondrew Locke, a lord loyal to the Manderlys, beckoned, “Let my maester have a look at that cut about your eye and at your head, ser.”

 

Jon held out his hand to the maester helping Lord Wyman and said, “A glob of that sticky poultice will suffice.” He smeared it over the left side of his head, where the fire that consumed Roose Bolton’s face had touched his skin, and dabbed a line of it over the cuts from Bolton’s knife. It stung for a moment, then calmed the ache of his wounds.

 

Finding a place on the bench, Symond Templeton advised, “Send scouts to hunt him down in the morning.”

 

Jon nodded.

 

As difficult a task as arranging three thousand dead bodies was, managing the living ones loomed over him. Ten thousand and five hundred Valemen had made the journey from White Harbor. Most survived the four-sided ambush. In addition, there were Manderly’s survivors, Stannis's men, and the four hundred prisoners.

 

As the lords began to discuss the captives, Triston Sunderland asked, “What shall we do with them all?”

 

The lords and knights looked to Jon.

 

He knew exactly why they did: they feared Viserion. Because of the dragon, they were cautious towards Jon.

 

_No, that’s not the only reason. You’re Ned Stark’s bastard son._

 

Ser Jon paced away from the men crowded just inside the Great Hall of Winterfell. At the opposite side of the chamber, he climbed the steps of the dais and sat in his father’s direwolf seat. _The throne of Winterfell._

 

Jon ran his palms over its carved arms, as Ned Stark used to do. He waved the lords and commanders over, then gestured for them to sit at the benches on the raised dais. He did his best to mimic the posture and demeanor he’d seen from his father. Jon kept his spine straight, but sat back in the stone chair.

 

Wyman Manderly was slow in joining them and needed help up the steps. Jon made everyone wait for the rotund Lord of White Harbor, all the same.

 

Once lord Wyman was settled, Ser Jon asked, “How are your injuries, my lord?”

 

“Fine, Jon.”

 

Lord Locke said, “A brave fool, Wyman is. His thumb and forefinger couldn’t be saved after he fell on Bolton’s dagger.”

 

Manderly held up his bandages. “Some fingers? Bah, a small price. I never thought I would survive this visit to Winterfell.”

 

Jon had many reasons to be grateful to this cunning lord. _For Lydrea, Halya, and Rickon. For facing down Roose Bolton. . ._ A wordless nod to Wyman Manderly was the only way Jon could express his bursting appreciation. _Thank you, my lord._

 

Jon cleared his throat, fighting the lump in the back of it. “Lord Sunderland,” he began again. “You had a question for me.”

 

“Yes,” responded the liege over the Three Sisters. “What will we do with all the prisoners we took?”

 

Ser Jon said, “I can solve the problem of prisoners, my lord. _With ease. . .”_ He pointed in the vague direction of the piled corpses outside. “As for our men, Winterfell’s been housing Bolton’s people for months. Surely some chambers are outfitted for a warm stay,” he suggested, looking to Lord Wyman.

 

“Yes, but for half as many as you brought, ser.”

 

The Knight of Ninestars said, “I don’t like having so many dead inside the castle. That’s how plagues begin, my lords.”

 

“The men are exhausted and frozen,” argued Lord Locke. “We can’t ask any more of them tonight.”

 

Ser Jon offered his own solution, “Viserion can make short work of the dead, now that we know who is who.”

 

“Burn them?” asked Templeton.

 

Jon nodded.

 

Listening in, one of Stannis's knights said, “R’hllor will approve and so will the wildlings.”

 

 _The bloody wildlings,_ Jon now remembered. For some unknown motive, Lord Commander Benjen Stark had bestowed hundreds of wildlings on Stannis and allowed them to come south of the Wall.

 

Locke spoke his opinion, “It’s poorly done, bringing those savages here. If Bolton and his bastard hadn’t killed the women of Winterfell, the wildlings would be lining up to rape them. I don’t like having them here,” he insisted once more. “Not in the least.”

 

“Bray all you wish,” countered Stannis Baratheon, having reluctantly followed Jon across the hall. “It’s not your choice to make.”

 

“No it isn’t,” Ser Jon allowed. “It’s not yours either, Lord Baratheon. I’ll speak for Queen Sansa in her absence.”

 

“I am your rightful king.”

 

“Leave off with that,” said Mors Crowfood, one of Greatjon Umber’s uncles. “Snow or Stark, that’s Lord Ned’s son.”

 

Ser Jon Whitewolf replied, “We’re all rebels here, Lord Stannis. Your wildlings fought for us and earned their guestright, at least for tonight. But they’re your men, as much as your knights are. I hold you to keeping them in line and executing any who don’t.”

 

The Valemen seemed satisfied; Locke and the Umber brothers tilted their cups to Jon. Alysane Mormont, who had curiously arrived with the Lord of Dragonstone’s forces, nodded her agreement as well. Stannis wasn’t pleased at being commanded, though he didn’t belabor the matter.

 

Marwyn Belmore called out from the entryway of the hall, “My lords! Should we bring in the important prisoners?” Jon waved him on, and Belmore went to retrieve whomever he had.

 

Ser Jon chose to receive them from his lord father’s seat and held his sword close.

 

Lord Rolland Longthorpe of Long Sister and Ser Marwyn brought Barbrey Dustin, Rodrik and Roger Ryswell, and Harwood Stout into the Great Hall. They were escorted across the Great Hall, and the Valemen forced the prisoners on bended knee.

 

“Bare steel,” said Lord Stout, looking up at Jon. “That’s no good sign for us.”

 

He lifted his sword from his lap. “You aren’t here as guests under my roof, but as enemies and prisoners.” He showed them both sides of the blade and said, “Freshly cleaned, my lord. For how long it stays so. . . that will be up to you.”

 

“Ser Jon,” addressed Wyman Manderly, leaning hard on the table and getting to his feet. “You are in the wrong here. Lady Dustin, her lord bannerman, and her Ryswell kin are the staunchest of Stark loyalists.”

 

“Explain that, my lord. What do you mean?”

 

“Whoresbane Umber and Robett Glover have been aligned with me in overthrowing Roose Bolton and his bastard. You believe that much, yes?”

 

“Of course,” Jon replied. He looked to the men seated beyond Lord Wyman. “Glover and both Umbers never did a thing to wound my opinion of them.”

 

“These others are no less loyal. They sided with me as soon as they confirmed what I told them.” Wyman was unsteady on his feet and sat back down. “When Robb Stark decided on your uncle Benjen as his heir, he sent Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont first to the Reeds then on to the North with his orders. King Robb meant to offer a hundred men to the Night’s Watch, if Benjen’s black brothers would release him of his vows.

 

“But at the Twins, we lost too many good men. Even us who weren’t there, we were left with daggers to our throats. Everything from then on had to be in secret.”

 

Jon asked him, “How far back do these plans go?”

 

Lord Manderly gestured to Umber. “Whoresbane started chopping trees for me soon after the past harvest feast, on orders from Rodrik Cassel and your brother Bran. Through everything, he’s been bringing timber to White Harbor and I’ve been secretly building warships with it.

 

“I got my hands on Theon Turncloak’s mute squire,” Manderly recounted. “That’s when I learned of the survival of the Stark boys. Through Whoresbane and Lord Stout, I passed that knowledge to Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell. She doubted me at first, saying, ‘How could two children survive the sacking of Winterfell?’ I told her what the Ironborn squire conveyed to me, that your brothers hid in the crypts until Ramsay’s betrayal ran its course. Lady Barbrey went down into the tombs herself, looking for confirmation one way or the other.”

 

“The swords,” she offered from her knees.

 

Wyman nodded twice. “Your little brothers and their guardians took swords, to defend the boys with the weapons of their buried kin.”

 

“That is when I knew,” confirmed Lady Dustin. “My father and brother believed Manderly once I did.” She tilted her head toward the Ryswells beside her. “As such, Barrowton and the Rills joined with White Harbor.”

 

“Do you see, Jon?” prodded Manderly. “Lady Barbrey and Lord Rodrik did not betray the Young Wolf - neither before his death nor after it. Once I had Dustin and Ryswell on my side, I provoked Aenys Frey into a quarrel, expecting Bolton to demand I send out my men to die fighting Stannis Baratheon. I was hoping for this, as it gave me the chance to get a message to his army. At the time, I saw them as the reinforcements we needed.

 

“Do not overlook the bloodshed that went on inside this very hall,” he said, clumsily waving his thumbless, bandaged hand. “It was as much these lords’ fight as it was mine. Many of their men hurried them from the castle under the dragon’s threat, as was their duty. But some they left behind. . . and those men-at-arms fought against the Leech Lord.”

 

Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell had seemed Lord Bolton’s most dedicated followers, and for that Jon wasn’t ready to trust them. But in light of Lord Wyman’s insistence, he wouldn’t keep them captive any longer. Jon came down from his father’s seat and untied their bindings himself.

 

Soon after, they adjourned for the night. Jon chose his old chambers and was the only man who didn’t share a room. He gave his father’s quarters to Lords Manderly and Locke, and they regarded it as an honor. Lady Stark’s room he gave to the lords of the Three Sisters. Jon knew that Lord Stannis, Ser Symond, Ser Marwyn, the Stormlands knights, and others would divide the rooms of Robb, Bran, Arya, and the rest of his family between themselves. Jon didn’t know how he should feel about that.

 

 _Better these men than Bolton’s oathbreakers,_ he told himself.

 

Viserion had the entry-chamber of the Great Keep all to herself. None of the lords protested, and Jon supposed they felt well-guarded. _No matter what Stannis says, wildlings are wildlings. A Northman’s more like to trust a beast of Valyria than a wildling’s word._

 

He was exhausted from the night’s combat, from a lack of sleep, and from the state he found Winterfell in. Slowly, his thoughts drifted away. When Jon finally fell asleep, he dreamt of chasing a pair of restless cubs, a boy and a younger girl, around and around in the snow.

 

* * *

 

When he awoke in the morning, Jon Whitewolf roused Viserion from the center of the entry chamber. She’d been silently watching hesitant soldiers and servants coming and going along the edge of the room.

 

“I want to show you something,” he told her.

 

The dragon flexed her shoulders and stretched her wings, before folding them tight and following Jon.

 

He passed his long handled, jug of cask cider from his right hand to his left. Jon put his shoulder to the old door and pushed his way into Winterfell’s godswood. Too big to fit through the gateway, Viserion leapt and fluttered over the wall.

 

The godswood was snowy and still.

 

_This is a sacred place, dragon._

 

When they reached the heart tree, he watched her reaction.

 

Viserion was curious about the unusual tree. She crept toward the carved face. The dragon snapped at it, testing for a reaction. When it didn’t move, she leaned close and licked at the weirwood’s blood red eyes.

 

She bared her fangs and contorted her face in disgust.

 

“Don’t taste good, does it?” a voice called out.

 

He turned around to see Alysane Mormont approaching. Viserion was eyeing her, but Jon told the dragon, “None of that. She’s no threat.”

 

“My lady,” he greeted.

 

The dragon turned her attention back to the weirwood. She crooked her long neck and leaned against the white bark.

 

“No,” Jon snapped. “Scratch yourself against any tree, save for that one. Go on,” he ordered.

 

Viserion gave him a snort and a growl, before pacing toward one of the piney sentinels.

 

“My horse don’t obey like that,” said the She-Bear.

 

“Lady Mormont,” Jon began, “how is it you’re here?”

 

“It’s the godswood,” she said, with a prickly edge in her voice. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”

 

Jon shook his head. “My pardons. I meant, how did you come to Lord Stannis’s host? How’d you end up at Winterfell in the first place?”

 

She was quick to smile. “It surprised me as much as him.”

 

Alysane Mormont was strong and stout with big, callused hands. She wore layers of sheepskin, leathers, and mail, no matter that the battle was over. The heir to Bear Island drank from a wineskin, then explained, “With as many men as I dared take from our isle, I hid in some fishing boats and crossed the bay. We surprised the small guard of ironmen protecting their longships. Unknown to me, Stannis was storming Deepwood Motte at roughly the same time. When the Greyjoys tried to flee to the sea, they found their ships burned and Mormont axes instead.”

 

“Well done,” he replied. “Stannis’s knights told the same story, except they made your role sound smaller.”

 

“Buggering southrons, what would you expect from ‘em?” She tossed back her wineskin, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “How’d you get here, Jon Snow? We had a hell of a time of it.”

 

He didn’t balk at his old name. It felt like some boyish nickname he’d long since grown out of, not ridicule for the manner of his birth. “White Harbor’s far enough south of here to be spared the worst of this last storm. We had only flurries until the split in the White Knife and even the second half of the march wasn’t too difficult with the Manderly sled-wagons.”

 

“King Stannis’s clunky ol’ wayns were no match for even an autumn snowstorm up in the true North.”

 

He suggested, “So after you and Stannis rid the Glovers of krakens. . .”

 

“We trudged on. Me and my men-at-arms, some reserves from Lady Glover, king’s men and queen’s men from the South, and Stannis’s wildlings.”

 

Jon stopped her and questioned, “What about them? How did he come to lead hundreds of raiders from the wrong side of the Wall?”

 

“Benjen Stark, of course. King Stannis chased off the main strength of Mance Rayder’s army. Some wildlings Lord Commander Stark allowed through. The worst o’ them he feathered with arrows. I wasn’t at Castle Black to see it, but the knights say Lord Stark handed the raiders and their spearwives over to Stannis just to be rid of them.  You know, fewer hungry mouths, less strife with the black brothers, and all.”

 

Confused, he asked, “Didn’t my uncle send ravens all across the realm begging for help? I know the Wall was under attack and I can see letting certain wildlings through, if he needed their swords against the worst of their kind. But why allow even one of them through, only to pass them off to Stannis?”

 

“Mayhaps that’s what Lord Stark was planning, to use the wildlings on the Wall,” she said with a shrug. “Stannis was the only king who answered the Watch’s call to arms. He wanted the wildlings to fight for him, and Benjen granted him that.

 

“I know he sent the commander of Shadow Tower, a Mallister of Seagard, to the hill clans to request they lend arms to the Watch. One of the king’s men can better tell it, but it would seem Ben Stark made lords of some of the clansmen.”

 

 _“Lords?”_ Jon wondered.

 

“Aye, lords over ruined forts. Not black brothers, mind you. Lords like any other, but owing their fealty to Castle Black and the Lord Commander, rather than to a king or some lord paramount.”

 

“Strange,” Jon mentioned aloud.

 

“Stark had conditions. The clansmen he raised up had to forget their old bonds and take the names of the forts he gave them. A Norrey became Lord Nightfort of the Nightfort A grandson of Big Bucket Wull became Lord Greyguard of Fort Greyguard. It went on like that, Jon Snow.”

 

“Was all that wise?”

 

“What choice did the lord commander have? You give a castle to a Wull and another to a Norrey, soon they’ll find cause to go to war with each other.”

 

“Not the names and oaths part,” Jon said, shaking his head. “That all seems clever, like he’s convincing men to swear themselves to the Night’s Watch and forget their old allegiances, without them realizing it. I meant: is it wise to give away those forts in the first place?”

 

She chuckled. “You ask the wrong person for that, Ser Snow. Mormonts are born for birth and battle, not plotting or truce-making.”

 

Jon worried about his uncle, but tried not to look concerned. He was fond of the Mormonts, especially Alysane’s lady mother, so he asked, “How fares the Mormont who brought _you_ into this world? No one seems to have seen the elder She-Bear in months.”

 

She stared at Jon for a moment, assessing something in his eyes. Alysane then shrugged. “I suppose you ought to know anyways. Heard that your brother sent her north, didn’t you?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Lord Howland Reed’s crannogmen helped my mother sneak into the North. She reached Bear Island after considerable effort. My mother raised a small contingent of soldiers, left me in charge, and took the two sisters of mine old enough to fight: Jory and Lyra.”

 

“Where did she go?”

 

“Back to the Neck was her plan. There are more crannogmen hidden in their swamp-towns than you could believe, she says. Reed and Galbart Glover were training spearmen and waiting to see what came of the fighting at Winterfell. Bolton, the Manderlys, those Freys, Stannis leaving Castle Black. . . _something_ had to give way. Mother and her allies were just waiting to see what that would be, before making their next move.”

 

“I hope Lady Maege will be pleased with our outcome here.”

 

“I expect she will,” said the She-Bear, cracking a wide smile. “My little sister will too.” She explained, “Little Lyanna holds Bear Island in my absence. She’s only nine, but she’s fierce. A Mormont through and through. My daughter’s the same age and just as fierce.”

 

“I’m sure the pair of them are as close as sisters. Much like how my own daughter acts with my youngest brother.”

 

“I heard he returned from the dead.”

 

 _“From Skagos,”_ Jon corrected. “Rickon and Halya hid on Skagos, under the care of my wife.”

 

“Never had the urge to wed,” Mormont answered, pointing at herself. “But all the same, my daughter and my boy were sired by a bear.”

 

“Oh?”

 

She grinned back. “I skinchanged into a bear, Jon Snow. By dawn both times, I had two perfect, little babes growing in my belly.”

 

Jon’s laugh was sudden and loud. Alysane tilted her head at an angle and eyed him suspiciously.

 

“No, no. I’m not having a laugh at your expense. No, I just thought. . . Well, you’re only the second woman I’ve ever met who would so freely mention skinchanging in the same breath as siring a child.”

 

Jon saw that she was now more confused. “My own wife, Lydrea Hornwood. Her child was fathered by a skinchanger too.”

 

“A skinchanger? She bedded. . .”

 

Jon arched an eyebrow.

 

“Oh. . . you mean. . .”

 

He nodded.

 

“As in, _actually do it?”_

 

He threw a glance over his shoulder at the white beast clawing the bark of a grey-green tree.

 

Alysane didn’t move a muscle, only stared at him. After the long pause, she said, “I cannot, actually. . . It’s just a story we tell folk. It leaves them wondering about whether it’s true.”

 

“Instead of wondering whether you or your children are bastard-born,” Jon suggested. “I understand that, of course.”

 

“Skinchanging. . .” Alysane Mormont took a long breath, looking at Viserion.

 

Finally, she shrugged her thick shoulders. “Why not, I s’pose.” She raised her wineskin. “To dragons and bears, Ser Snow.”

 

He toasted with his hot cider and added, “To fierce daughters and headstrong siblings, Lady She-Bear.”

 

A dark look crossed Alysane’s face.

 

“What is it?” Jon asked, setting aside his drink.

 

She didn’t react at first.

 

He repeated the question and grew more curious.

 

“It’s Lady Arya,” she finally said. “Your sister.”

 

 _“Arya?”_ Jon spoke breathlessly. “What do you know?”

 

“Jon Snow - Jon, she. . . she fled her marriage to Ramsay. Lady Arya reached Stannis’s camp.”

 

He relaxed at that. “No, my lady. That wasn’t my sister. Cersei Lannister sent an imposter to Bolton.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Cersei dressed up some peasant girl in Stark colors and sent her north. Arya escaped the Lannisters long before that.”

 

Mormont shook her head.

 

 _“Yes,”_ he insisted. “With respect, my lady, you never met my sister. Neither did Lord Stannis. It’s not your fault you were confused.”

 

“Mayhaps we didn’t know her,” she conceded. “But, Mors Umber tested her. He asked her about Winterfell and the Starks. How could a King’s Landing girl know enough to fool Mors Crowfood?”

 

For a moment, Jon’s certainty wavered. _How could a girl like that. . ._

 

“The Lannisters would’ve expected that! Yes,” he said, as his mind gained momentum. “Cersei would need to convince Roose Bolton that the girl was Arya. So she must’ve forced her to study details about Winterfell and the Starks. Queen Cersei, herself, was here not so long ago.”

 

“I don’t know if that. . .”

 

“I _do_ know. Arya never married Ramsay Snow. She was never tortured by him. She was never raped by him. _My_ Arya escaped the war. She traded her horse for passage on a ship, and she's off hiding somewhere.

 

“Yes, that's what happened,” Jon declared, now sure of himself. “She's quick and clever, and Arya’s just hiding. She was at the Saltpans. That was proven. She hasn't come home yet, but she will. And when she does, she won't find _fucking Boltons_ waiting for her. No, she won't. She'll find _her family_ here. Right where we're suppose to be. It will take time. Aye, she'll need to know it's safe. And, word will spread slowly. But someday, she'll come back.

 

“Bolton never had her. His bastard never brutalized her. . . Ramsay did so many horrors. . . He didn't do this too. He never got his hands on Arya.”

 

Alysane looked down and whispered, “What if, Jon? What if. . .”

 

“I'll tell you what, _my lady.”_ He called out, “Viserion!”

 

The dragon turned her attention to him, and Jon asked, “Please, Viserion. Please search over the Wolfswood. The imposture can't be too far away. Find her for me. Then, bring her back-”

 

He stopped himself. _No, that won’t work._ “Please find her and then return here. Once we know where she is, you and I will go after her together. We shall capture this imposture and punish her for all she's done. Cersei Lannister's catspaw won't get away with her lies.”

 

Jon could feel Viserion’s understanding. For all that he’d been consumed with his own troubles, he knew that a part of the dragon missed her own siblings. _The appeasing, green brother and, sometimes, you miss even the angry black one._

 

Though Jon knew it couldn’t be his little sister out there, he had to confirm it. Viserion bounded out from among the trees and soared into the cold sky to find out.

 

* * *

 

After sending Viserion off, Jon Whitewolf joined his allies, who were breaking their fast under torchlight. The sun was not only rising later each morning, but also seemed to burn less brightly with every passing day.

 

He swept his eyes across everyone at the high table. There were the lords of the Three Sisters, two Vale knights - Belmore and Templeton, Robett Glover, Alysane Mormont, Wyman Manderly, Mors and Hother Umber, Ondrew Locke, Barbrey Dustin, her Ryswell father and brothers, Harwood Stout, and Lord Stannis Baratheon.

 

Trying to leave his worries back in the godswood, Jon Whitewolf began, “We have much we must needs discuss. It’s all interwoven. The matters before us are: the Riverlands, the lordships of the North, and the Ironborn.”

 

Lord Triston Sunderland looked across the table and asked, “Well, ser? What is next for me and my bannermen? Is our adventuring up here in the northern frost-lands done, or is there more for us?”

 

Jon wasn’t fond of the man’s phrasing, but didn’t make an issue of it. He replied, “My lord, I thank for your help -  as I thank all Valemen. I hope to give you leave to return to your castles and gird your lands for winter, but we must needs be patient. We cannot allow our enemies to rally.”

 

He turned his focus to Lord Manderly, “What do you recommend? Razing the Dreadfort? Scouring the land for Ramsay Snow? Are the ironmen still plaguing our coastline?”

 

More lucid than he’d been promptly after losing two fingers, Wyman stated, “While I wouldn’t mind waking up to a day when no Ironborn yet live, I don’t think they pose much of a threat now.”

 

“There’s squids in Torrhen’s Square,” suggested Alysane Mormont.

 

“I have a plan for that,” Jon announced without explanation. “Where else?”

 

Lord Locke held up a crooked finger and said, “The Dreadfort must needs fall. . . but it needn’t fall on the morrow.”

 

“I understand,” Jon answered, tabling the matter of the Bolton stronghold for the moment.

 

Riled and alert, Mors Umber questioned, “Where’s the Greatjon? Why isn’t he with you?”

 

Ser Jon smirked. “I freed him from the dungeon within the Twins, however, there were Freys who still needed killing, down in the Riverlands. Your nephew stayed to show Lord Royce how best to take their heads.”

 

Crowfood Umber and his brother, Whoresbane, stamped on the floor and thumped the tabletop. Their men began to mimic them from the lower tables, no matter that they couldn’t have heard what Jon said.

 

“When last I spoke to him,” Jon resumed once the Umber uproar died down, “Bronze Yohn planned to march up the Neck with an ample host. Will the way be clear for them?”

 

No longer a prisoner, Lady Dustin answered, “Roose Bolton left very few men to guard the causeway through the swamps. He needed every last soldier he could muster here in Winterfell.”

 

“Still. . . I would rather spare Royce and the Greatjon the danger of that fight at all. Lord Stout, do you have the men needed to clear Moat Cailin of Boltons?”

 

The one-armed man nodded to Jon.

 

“Make ready to do just that. Afterwards, stay behind with a small garrison to patrol the surrounding area. I want no enemy crossing that ancient stronghold. Understood, my lord?”

 

“Lord Wyman,” Jon addressed next. “That secret fleet you spoke of last night? It will remain secret no longer. The North needs those ships. I require you to send them across the Narrow Sea to purchase and barter for food. Lady Anya Waynwood, the Master of Provender on my sister’s Small Council, is right now organizing winter provisions at Ironoaks. Send word to her, as she may have a head start on what we’ll need if we ever hope to see spring.”

 

Roger Ryswell, the heir to the Rills, asked, “Can we risk them in open waters? Do we know what they’ll find across the Narrow Sea?”

 

The bastard knight of Winterfell said sternly, “They will find _trade._ The Free Cities fight their own wars and do not concern themselves with ours. Northern wool and lumber can keep them warm, as winter will soon reach the shores of Essos. Food comes cheap over there. The foreign traders will be happy to part with a worthy amount of it and shall think themselves crafty, turning grain into wood and wool.”

 

The lords listened, but did not respond. After several seconds, he grasped what that meant. _They’re hesitant. They don’t like this plan._

 

“Braavos, Pentos, Tyrosh, Old Volantis, Naath, the Ax Isle, Qarth,” Jon called out, like a chant. “How many of you, my lords, have seen even one of those cities? I’ve seen them all - and dozens of smaller ports none of you are like to have heard of.”

 

He gave the lords a moment to murmur to each other.

 

“Lord Wyman’s ships might be the only strength we have at sea, but starvation is a worse foe than Paxter Redwyne’s galleys. If the Reach or the sellswords in the Stormlands wish to fight us, let them come. Better that the White Harbor ships are far from our shores, as we can’t hope to match our foes in a fight at sea. We can wait for them to beach and fight them on northern ground, should they come for us.”

 

Jon took a breath and proceeded to the next matter before them. “The Riverlands are sworn to Queen Sansa. I refuse to leave them to the mercy of Lannisters and Tyrells or to use them as arrow fodder to buffer us. Their castles and towns need rebuilding - even more than ours.”

 

He heard grumbling.

 

“No man can hold the Riverlands,” insisted Stannis Baratheon, drawing everyone’s attention. “It gets torn apart during every war Westeros has.”

 

“That is why changes must needs be made,” Jon said back in an agreeable tone. “The Westerlands have their golden hills, Dorne has its desert and the Red Mountains, we have the Neck and our snow. These make for easy defenses, my lords. The Riverlands have their rivers, of course, but the lords of that region take poor advantage of them.

 

“The North has long been united under the Starks. Same for the West under Casterly Rock. Not so for Riverlands. The Fischer Kings fought the Mudds. The Tullys didn’t rule until after Aegon Targaryen burned their overlord, Harren the Black. Bracken and Blackwood still fight the battle between the First Men and the Andals. No ruler has yet looked at a map of the Riverlands and regarded them as a single kingdom to fortify. They were always either split apart or under the thumb of some outsider king above them.

 

“Lord Hoster Tully was a brave man in his day and Riverrun makes use of its waters better than anywhere else in Westeros, but neither Lord Hoster nor his forebears sufficiently fortified the Riverlands on whole. I know the Trident better than my sister and won’t let her renew the mistakes of her Tully kin.”

 

“What do _you_ know of the Trident,” scoffed Mors Crowfood. “Some of us _men_ were fighting with our boots in that fucking river, ‘fore a green boy like you was ever born.”

 

Undeterred, Jon answered, “Then you’ll see the wisdom of my plan and can later explain it to anyone without the wits to understand me.”

 

Jon knew his phrasing was clunky, but the confidence in his voice seemed to appease Umber.

 

“With us to the north,” he began, getting to his feet and clearing some room on the table, “think of the Riverlands’ other three borders for us to guard.” He gestured as he said, “Think of those borders as a fish-hook, my lords. The long, left side is the Riverlands’ western border. That side is protected by the Red Fork. The bottom curve of the hook, that’s Blackwater Rush - the river which flows to King’s Landing. The shorter, right side of the hook, that’s the river that runs from the God’s Eye. At the tip of hook is Harrenhal.”

 

The lords nodded along.

 

“The left side is simple enough. It’s already protected by Pinkmaiden and Wayfarer’s Rest.” He traced a line on the table. “Where the left meets the bottom curve, there’s the Stoney Sept. The knight Lord Tully gave command over that town died at Lannister hands. The township needs a proper lord, but that’s all.

 

“The bottom side of our hook-border is more vulnerable. Blackwater Rush is not guarded at all. Two or three forts must needs be raised to patrol that waterway.

 

“On the shorter, right side is the river from the God’s Eye. . . _Bloody hells,_ the riverlords didn’t bother to give the damned thing a name, much less castles to guard it. One lordship along that river will serve to start with.

 

“Stepping back to where the right side and the bottom curve meet, that’s the most vital ground for Her Grace. The fork where those two rivers join, Blackwater Rush and the God’s Eye one, will make the southeasterly corner of our domain. Raising at least a wooden motte there is foremost in our tasks, my lords.”

 

Lord Sunderland looked over. “So, the west is guarded, the south isn’t, and the east is - but only in part?”

 

“Aye, my lord. That’s the root of it. The gap of our fish hook - the opening above the pointed tip - that’s the grassland between the God’s Eye and the Bay of Crabs. We have no river barrier there. Harrenhal, next to the God’s Eye, and Castle Darry, at the edge of the bay, are our guarding castles.

 

“We need four new lords to fill the neglected grounds along our rivers, as well as new lords over Darry and Harrenhal.”

 

“Over here,” called Mors Umber. “You can’t mean to build four castles or forts now. It’s winter!”

 

“Winter is here. But winter isn’t equal in all places. A Northman will find the Riverlands temperate for a decent while longer. I want nominations for new lords from all of you. Tell me of the coin and the builders you will avail to the kin or friends you wish to become lords. Whoever among you is best suited to build the keeps I require, his candidates will be raised up.”

 

The lords were quiet and attentive.

 

“Raise these small forts and we'll control those parts of the rivers. Control the rivers and you control the Riverlands.”

 

Jon Whitewolf supposed that, by rule, Sansa should be deciding these unsettled and proposed lordships. However, he wanted as much stability as possible before he set out to wherever his next battle would be. The last year had seen numerous betrayals in the North: Ramsay Snow to Ser Rodrik Cassel, Arnolf Karstark’s attempted betrayal of Stannis, even the Northmen’s justified betrayal against Roose Bolton. Jon was determined to squash any similar attempt.

 

“Where shall we find the coin for all this?” wondered Hother Whoresbane.

 

“We need not pay with coin,” Ser Jon answered. “The smallfolk of the Riverlands - and the Crownlands too - are in a terrible state. For the promise of a hot supper and a dry bed, hundreds will help us to stake palisade walls and forts.”

 

“What will this mean for the borders?” Lord Ryswell questioned. “Will we be taking ground from the Iron Throne?”

 

_“Every inch.”_

 

The other Northmen laughed at Jon’s blunt response.

 

As they quieted, he explained, “Yes and no, my lord. The Crownlands and Riverlands are poorly separated. This is partly why Houses like Darry and Mooton and Whent had such trouble in past wars.”

 

 _Now. . . what’s next for us?_ Jon asked himself. “Lord Ryswell, I have no wish for the North ever again to suffer under the thumb of the Ironborn. You will craft detailed maps of the North’s western coastline, from the Stony Shore to Sea Dragon Point. I need your insight into the best locations for tower-keeps to better fortify our kingdom against reavers from the Iron Islands.”

 

Ryswell looked confused. “Aren’t you going to fight them? On your dragon?”

 

“Mayhaps my lord. . .” He took a moment to consider the old man’s question and after further thought, Jon wondered, “What was the first Greyjoy rebellion like? Compared to then, how do we stand with just the levies we have here at Winterfell?”

 

“When your father and King Robert called the banners,” answered Lord Locke from his seat beside Manderly. “We had more men, far more ships. . . and one less dragon.”

 

“We have no ships on that side of Westeros,” announced Lord Wyman. “Gratifying as cutting down the Greyjoys would be. . . without an adequate fleet, we don’t have the means to fight them, ser.”  
  


Jon accepted the man’s council and moved the deliberation along. “I said that Moat Cailin must needs be fortified.” He gave a nod to Harwood Stout. “But we shall need a permanent lord to take it over.

 

“Would that it was a year of peace and summer,” Jon said with a sigh. “Regardless, firming up what’s left of that half-sunken fortress is another, vital task for us.”

 

He resumed his lordly demeanor and declared, “I personally disposed of Ramsay’s men holding Castle Hornwood before coming here. What other lordships have yet to be settled, my lords?”

 

“The Cerwyn girl, whatever her name is,” said Hother Umber.

 

“Jonelle,” Jon supplied. “She must be the lady of her House, no?”

 

“Aye, my lord.”

 

“A maid past thirty,” said Lady Dustin.

 

Jon asked her, “What about one of your brothers as husband for Lady Jonelle?”

 

The question surprised Lady Barbrey. She stared at him a moment, then said, “Roger has a wife. Mayhaps Rickard or Roose, I suppose. . .”

 

 _Roose. Gods, I hate that fucking name._ “Let us say, Rickard. So he isn’t wed?” Jon checked.

 

Dustin replied, “He isn’t.”

 

 _Roger then Rickard then Roose,_ Jon tallied in his head, trying to keep straight the three quarrelsome Ryswell brothers. _And Rodrik is their father’s name._

 

Because Manderly insisted they were loyal men, Jon was willing to give them the chance to prove their fealty. “We shall arrange a marriage for your second son,” he told Lord Rodrik Ryswell. “He shall be the new Lord Protector of Castle Cerwyn.”

 

The old man was greatly pleased.

 

“Ser Roger Ryswell, I have a mission for you in what I’m planning at Torrhen’s Square.”

 

Next, Jon looked to the youngest of the Ryswells and told him, “Think of what you’d liked to be called in place of ‘Roose’. You’ll be staying here as a sworn shield of Winterfell.”

 

_And as a guard against disloyalty from your kin._

 

“Now. . .” Jon began again. “Lord Baratheon, I have word that you executed Arnolf Karstark. Aye?”

 

“And his son. And his three grandsons,” Stannis recounted.

 

“Which son?”

 

Mors Umber answered when Stannis didn’t, “Arthor. The younger one.”

 

“So that leaves Cregan governing Karhold,” Jon surmised. “Where do his loyalties lie?”

 

Crowfood shook his head. “Benjen Stark executed that one. His letter to Stannis said so.” Jon asked why, and Mors said with a shrug, “Some business with Lord Karstark’s daughter.”

 

“With so many Karstarks executed, who’s watching the castle?”

 

“Desmond Grell,” replied Hother Whoresbane.

 

_“Ser Desmond?!”_

 

Jon would’ve been just as surprised if he heard _Bran the Builder_ was now castellan of Karhold. “The master-at-arms at Riverrun? _That_ Desmond Grell? How the bloody hells did he end up so far north?”

 

“He refused to serve a Frey,” said Crowfood, “so he left the Riverlands to take the black.”

 

Hother offered, “Rickard Karstark. . . whose head the Young Wolf lopped off. . . his daughter fled a forced marriage to Cregan, her cousin. She rode for the Watch.”

 

“No doubt to join the black brothers,” suggested Jon, absurdly.

 

Hother Whoresbane shook his head. “The lord commander offered the girl sanctuary for a while. Then, two river-knights arrived to say their vows - Grell and someone else. Lord Stark gave the girl her choice for a husband.”

 

Ser Desmond was a good man, but well passed fifty. Alys Karstark was Jon’s age. “Was Lady Karstark happy about this or angry at Benjen?”

 

“More happy than not,” guessed the younger of the Umber brothers.

 

“Good,” Jon concluded with a smile. He knew he could count on Grell for support. _It’ll be good to see the man again, good to show him how far I’ve come in the world._

 

Curious about how his uncle fared, Ser Jon asked, “How stands the Watch?”

 

The ornery Stormlord said, “The black brothers are as they always were: ill-tempered, stingy, and half-frozen atop their ice.”

 

 _“The Watch,"_ stated Harwood Stout, loud enough to get everyone’s attention. “They sent ravens begging for all the fighters we could spare.”

 

“How long ago?”

 

“Well, we were still fighting a war,” protested Lord Ryswell. “We couldn’t-”

 

Jon stopped him. “Nevermind what orders Bolton gave you.”

 

“About a year and a half ago,” recalled the one-armed Stout. “At the time, the lord commander said dead men were closing in on the Wall. Wildlings and dead men, Ser Jon.”

 

“How many swords did you send?”

 

The lords shot looks to each other.

 

Jon Whitewolf persisted, “You can be forgiven for being miserly, of course. But how many men between you? How many all told?”

 

Lord Ryswell shrugged.

 

Lady Barbrey spoke for the rest of them, “None, ser. I don’t know that we sent a lone man between us.”

 

Frustration boiled up within him. He knew what their inaction could mean for his uncle’s safety. Jon stared at his fingers as he traced them over the direwolf arms of his father’s seat. After a long pause, he raised his eyes. “I know that the petty and foolish Southron lords failed to turn over their prisoners to the Night’s Watch. I never expected it from Northmen.

 

“You know better, my lords. _You know better._ If Benjen Stark calls out for aid, he needs it. Worse than grumpkins patrol the Haunted Forest and beyond. By my uncle’s own word, Lord Commander Mormont died at the misshapen hands of a dead man brought back to life.

 

“Ryswell, Manderly, Dustin, Stout, Locke, Glover, Umber, and all others, I rebuke the lot of you for neglecting your duty to the Watch.” To Stannis Baratheon, however, Jon offered a courteous nod.

 

Turning to the other lords, he continued, “The last thing in this world that we need is an army embolden with some dark magic coming to cut our throats. I like wildlings south of the Wall not at all. I like wights crossing even less.”

 

Ryswell questioned, “Do you truly believe all that? Rumors and such of white walkers and wights?”

 

“I don’t need to,” he said plainly. “Benjen Stark said he needs help to hold the Wall. Who am I _\- who are the lot of you -_ to question the word of the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Perhaps the Others have returned after eons, perhaps some forest-witch cast a spell over a horde of corpses, might be. . . that a wildling clan _smeared their faces with pig shit._ There is no difference for you or me. Benjen says he needs help, that he faces down wights. . . we take him at his word and lend him whatever aid we can.

 

“Do any of you fail to understand me? With the voice of Queen Sansa Stark, I tell you now: we will not forsake the Night’s Watch.”

 

Jon reined in his cold anger, relaxing his fists. “After my battle at the Twins, I sent a few hundred Frey bannermen and some Frey boys, ones too young to execute, to Eastwatch. I’m certain many of the prisoners in Winterfell’s dungeons would prefer the Watch’s black cloaks over funeral coverings from the silent sisters.” He took a long breath. “Even after the War of the Five Kings and the betrayal at the Twins, I’m sure that each of you can find mouths you’d rather not spend winter feeding. Send them northward once I give you leave to return to your lands. I will expect ravens detailing who you send. Tally your counts by boys, fighters, and greybeards.

 

“I shall also need one of you lords - mayhaps more than one - to escort the wildlings back to the Wall. I admire my uncle’s cunning in freeing himself of them, but bugger all if I’m going to trouble Queen Sansa with wildlings on our lands.”

 

_“No.”_

 

All eyes turned to Stannis.

 

“You will not have them,” commanded Baratheon.

 

Lord Locke hollered, “They’re bloody wildlings!”

 

“They are mine. Mine to march where I please, mine to command in battle. I will not surrender them to you.”

 

Jon asked where it was that Lord Stannis planned to march them.

 

“Wherever I please.”

 

 _Very helpful, my lord._ “I will grant you and your wildlings safe passage through my sister’s kingdom, provided you swear to uphold my conditions.”

 

“Conditions?” He insisted, “I’m your rightful king.”

 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve informed me of that. I have not forgotten your position on the matter. Still. . . you will hear my conditions and abide by them, or your wildlings will never leave here with their heads.”  
  


Stannis Baratheon didn’t have anywhere near the number of swords he would need to stand against the men under Jon’s command. The man clenched his jaw, neither agreeing nor arguing.

 

“My lord, the requirements are simple,” Jon stated with courtesy. “Any man in your company who kidnaps a woman within the Kingdom of the North and the Trident shall be executed by your hand, my lord.”

 

“The penalty for rape is gelding, not death. A man can still swing a sword after that sentence.”

 

“Not these men, my lord. _Death_ for the kidnapper, _death_ for any who aided him, _death_ for any who try to conceal the act. These are wildlings, my lord. You and your knights - every one of them - will swear to enforce these laws as I described, or I will put chains on the wildlings and march them back to Castle Black.”

 

“By what right-”

 

“By the authority of Winterfell,” Jon declared, not waiting for Stannis to finish his complaint. “By the law of the North, by Queen Sansa’s crown, and by Her Grace’s strength of arms. I have no sympathy for those who’d harm the girls of this kingdom. Think of what you’re arguing for, Lord Baratheon. A raper’s right to live? Shall we cross swords over this matter?”

 

Stannis's jaw tightened and he looked like to grind his teeth to a fine dust. Nonetheless, he didn’t persist in his baseless argument.

 

“Do I still have your ears, my lords?” Jon asked, remaining stern. “My lords, think of the river that connects the lake beside Torrhen’s Square with the sea. You all know the one, aye? We have no defense there, only fishing villages. Master Tallhart had no warning when the Greyjoys rowed up it.” Jon looked to Lord Stout. “Goldgrass shields Barrowton from similar attacks, doesn’t it?”

 

“Aye, ser.”

 

“That proved to be all the difference, my lords, between Lady Dustin’s relative peace this last year and what’s befallen House Tallhart.”

 

Jon Whitewolf looked across the men seated before him. “I intend to take back the Tallhart township.”

 

“You mentioned my name for that,” probed Roger Ryswell.

 

“I did,” he confirmed. “My plan requires you and Crowfood Umber.” Jon gestured for Mors to pay closer attention, and the bear-cloaked Northman leaned out over the tabletop. “I want Torrhen’s Square back in the hands of Northmen. My eyes must needs turn to the Dreadfort and elsewhere. So yours,” he stressed, pointing at Roger and Mors, “will look to rescue Lady Tallhart and whoever remains of her kin.

 

“Mors Crowfood, you will make for the town. If the squids pin themselves up, I task you with storming the walls. More likely however, they will flee when they see you, as their fellows did when Lord Stannis closed in on Deepwood Motte. You will allow them to flee. Ryswell, your duty will be to ambush their retreat.

 

“Torrhen’s has a protected birth onto its lake. The ironmen’ll be able to jump into their longboats while still shielded behind the town’s walls. Before Umber attacks, Roger Ryswell - with the men-at-arms I assign - will go to where the lake ends and the river begins. Chop down trees and use them as a boom across the throat of the river.

 

“Once you have the ironmen trapped, give them the chance to yield. Tell them you will ransom them back to their lords or kin.”

 

“Ransoms?!” hollered Crowfood Umber.

 

“Settle, Mors,” Jon said with a half-grin. He was growing more fond of the uncouth, giant of a man with every outburst. Jon leaned back and explained his reasoning, “My first concern is for Helman Tallhart’s kin: his wife, daughter, and nephews. . . if they still live. I don’t want to chance Greyjoy men slitting the children’s throats during a standoff.”

 

He concluded his strategy by saying, “Lord Stannis's prisoners from the Iron Islands said that we’ll find only petty reavers in the town, not lords.” Jon glanced at Lady Mormont, and she confirmed his words with a nod. “Their masters are like to refuse to pay for their release. Once their ravens say as much. . . we can rip out their entrails and never break our word.”

 

Umber stole the nearest mug, banged it on the table, then emptied it down his gullet.

 

“And you?” Jon asked Lord Ryswell’s eldest son. “Do you agree as well?”

 

“I know that river, ser. I’ll see that no longboat makes it out to sea.”

 

Ser Jon the Whitewolf stopped before saying aloud his next thought. Judging by their expressions, he was confident that he’d won a measure of respect from the lords, knights, and ladies with his strategy to retake Torrhen’s Square.

 

As for the next idea in his head, Jon had no illusions about how ambitious and foolhardy it was.  

 

_It’s only a hope. An undertaking for spring._

 

Nevertheless, he knew how important hope was for himself and the men sitting around him.

 

“When winter ends. . . I would begin the digging of a trench. A. . . a saltwater corridor, my lords. For any of you unfamiliar with the North’s coastline, the Sunset Sea juts into the Neck with the Saltspear. That inlet continues just about to Moat Cailin, on the waterway called the Fever.

 

“Between the end of the Fever and the sea on the other side of the continent is no trifling distance - mayhaps fifty leagues.”

 

“Fifty leagues?” questioned Sunderland. “Dig a waterway _fifty leagues_ long? Impossible.”

 

“You’ve never seen the Wall, have you?” Jon bantered back. “If we dig throughout the summer years, Lord Triston, we could join this corridor with the Narrow Sea. . . eventually. Ships would then have passage through the mainland of Westeros.”

 

Jon glanced at Lord Wyman and found the man’s eyes had gone wide. “Manderly understands me. White Harbor would see trade unlike anywhere else in the Seven Kingdoms. Braavos, Lorath, Pentos - they all would have a new way to the far coastline of Westeros.”

 

“A shorter way,” offered Wyman.

 

“By thousands of leagues, my lord. The towns of the North with waterways connecting to the Saltspear. . .” Jon specified, “Barrowton, Torrhen’s Square, and the Rills, of course. Those towns would take on new influence and riches with the cut of this passage.

 

“My lords, I speak from first-hand knowledge. Countless cities in Essos feed themselves on trade alone. Inhospitable stretches of shoreline can be transformed with the arrival of merchants. Pentos,” he singled out. “That city offers nothing notable. Neither the woven fabrics of Myr, nor Tyroshi metalwork. Pentos is just a harbor. But their lords, men they call _magisters,_ never fear their children going hungry.

 

“I’ve asked much from all of you. Your tasks are not yet done. But if you follow me, if you stay loyal to your queen, each among you will thrive in the years to come. Hold strong through winter, my lords. And when spring breaks, we shall dig our trench between the Narrow Sea and the Saltspear.

 

“Traders from Braavos to Qarth will come. Lannisport, the Fair Isle, Highgarden, even Oldtown and the Arbor, they’ll all be within reach for foreign merchants without requiring those sailors to navigate the treacherous Stepstones or hazard the barren shores of Dornish desert.

 

“Our allies of the Vale will not be left in the cold,” Jon added. “What stands just off shore from the entrance of the trench I’m proposing?”

 

Excitedly, Sunderland answered the rhetorical query, “The Three Sisters!”

 

Jon the Whitewolf looked at each lord and lady as he spoke of their respective domain. “Barrowton, Goldgrass, White Harbor, the Rills and Stony Shore, Longsister, Littlesister, Sweetsister, and Oldcastle. . . all of you will benefit from what I offer. When spring comes, I’ll lend my own two hands to man a shovel.

 

“But for now - and for as many years of winter as the old gods thrust upon us - my hopes are only words, and words are wind.

 

“Take the rest of today and tomorrow to think over all that I’ve said. The day after, bring me your thoughts on lordships, dowries, and the joining of Houses through marriage. Your nominations may help dictate power in the North and the Trident for the next thousand years. Do not forget that some lands must needs go to riverlords, so consider the Houses you would offer marriages and alliances to. From all we discuss, we shall settle on two new northern lords to guard the Stony Shore, several lordships in the Riverlands, and several more to take up now deserted castles.”

 

The lords and knights voiced their agreement with his proposal, but seemed to be deep in thought about the prospects for their Houses.

 

“Good, good,” Ser Jon said to himself. A notion occurred to him and he struggled to hold in his smile. “Roger, you’re a knight, no?”

 

“Yes, knighted during Robert’s Rebellion. By my uncle, Ser Mark, who was ahead of me by only two years. He knighted me just before he rode off with Ned Stark to rescue Lady Lyanna.”

 

“A brave man, your uncle.” Jon knew that his father held Mark Ryswell in high regard, though he rarely spoke of him.

 

“Mors Umber,” Jon Whitewolf called with a formal air and stood up from his father’s seat. “Put down that ale and kneel before me.”

 

The immense and shaggy man looked confused, but obeyed and circled around the table. Even from his knee, the man’s shoulders came almost up to Jon’s. He flinched when Jon drew his sword.

 

“For your part in taking back Winterfell, for your loyalty to the Starks, and for the Freys you killed. . .” _Any knight can make a knight._

 

Ser Jon the Whitewolf touched his blade first to the left shoulder, then the right. “Arise Ser Mors Umber, a knight of the North and the brave sword of Her Grace, Sansa Stark, Queen of the North and the Trident. Three cheers for Mors Crowfood!”

 

Shouts went up across the hall.

 

Umber nearly tackled Jon with a bear hug, then turned to holler, “Have a look at me, lads! _Ser Crowfood,_ if you can believe it!” He went to his bookish brother and straight away began harassing him about the new title. Hother Whoresbane was the younger of the two, but with his long beard and bony frame he looked much older. He took the japes and cursed that Mors better not expect his knightly arse kissed.

 

Still on his feet, Jon declared to the Great Hall of Winterfell, “We must needs stand strong against our enemies and against winter. Peacetime is when a lord must needs prepare for war, just as summertime is for winter. We are in the midst of neither. Victory is what we need. And swiftly. Let winter be our only enemy.”

 

“Here, here!” several men hollered.

 

The cheers and jests amongst the Umber boys and men resumed.

 

All seemed right in Winterfell’s Great Hall. The men had forgotten their troubles for the nonce. They were savoring the fresh victory as well as their hopes for the years to come. The rise in spirit was so sorely needed.

 

Jon chose that moment to leave. He stepped away from his father’s seat and down off the dais. Walking down the main aisle of the hall, men bowed to him. Some called him, “ser,” and others, “my lord.” None failed to acknowledge him with one show of respect or another.

 

 

 


	72. Aeron the Damphair - Who Dwells Beneath the Waves

Aeron Greyjoy’s prayers in the pitch darkness were interrupted by a thump on the door.

 

“Enter, my son,” he said, but the young man who entered was no son of his. _Euron knows better than to send a godly man to see me. Any true Ironborn would never treat a Drowned Man so._

 

It was one of his brother’s mutes who entered Aeron the Damphair’s cell. The young man placed a plate of raw seaweed and a mug of saltwater just inside his cell.

 

_Three days of this. Three days of mocking me and my faith in the Drowned God._

 

* * *

 

 Aeron Damphair found himself stirred from sleep. He didn’t know how late it was. _In this foul darkness, all hours become the middle of a moonless night._

 

The door creaked open, and a chill ran through his bones.

 

“Something familiar hangs in the air, Aeron. It’s as if visiting you while you’re sleeping is something I’ve done before, my little brother-sister.”

 

_The Crow’s Eye._

 

 _You are no longer a boy, Aeron. You are a man, drowned and risen._ “Kill me and be done with it,” he demanded. “I do not fear death.”

 

Euron hissed a laugh. “Of course not, you're a follower of the Drowned God. Surely, he will greet you as a brother when you knock on the doors of his watery hall.”

 

Aeron the Damphair did not rise to his elder brother’s taunts. Solemnly, he said, “What is dead, may never die.”

 

Laughter burst from the Crow’s Eye’s mouth. “That is truer than you’ll ever know.”

 

“What are your plans for me, if you do not intend to kill me?”

 

“Oh, Aeron. We were starting to have such an amusing talk. Why ruin it with your seriousness?”

 

“If you won’t state your purpose,” he replied, “I ask you about our last remaining brother. What have you done with Victarion?”

 

“Ha! He is a mindless servant, but at least Victarion can be useful. You, with your damp hair, spent your life pouring seawater on boys and old men and praying to a toothless god. The Drowned God would wet himself at the sights I’ve seen.

 

“But you asked about our brother and I mean to tell you. Victarion took the mission and the bedslave I gave him. To bring me back some white-haired whore, I told him.” Euron brought his torch close to his face, so Aeron could see him smile. “I’ve fucked whores the world over, including Victarion’s wife. If he believed I would go to such trouble to fuck one more, he deserved what happened to him.

 

“No, little brother, I have no need for some dragon-slut. I saw in the fires of burning corpses what I needed to do. I gave Victarion a woman trained in the Fire God’s arts.”

 

“The Fire God?” questioned Aeron. _Have you fallen so far in your sadistic godlessness that you’ve not only forgotten the Ironborn’s god, but forsaken him for another?_

 

“Yes, little brother,” the Crow’s Eye answered, quirking a grin. “After I captured my dark-skinned, fire worshiping whore, my warlocks wished for me to burn her or drown her or slit her throat. The Red God’s servants from Asshai scare even them.

 

“The bitch had two mongrel sons. I tied up the elder and suspended him from my mast. I ordered my man in the crow’s nest to pour pitch down the rope and then I lit the boy on fire.”

 

_Burning a boy alive?!_

 

Euron Crow’s Eye laughed at the memory. “I did this, mind you, before stating my purpose. But even a fire-whore understood the strength of my will. I told the bitch to cut out her own tongue and the tongue of her one remaining son. When she did this, I knew she was mine to do with as I pleased.”

 

_Even thralls deserve better._

 

Euron Greyjoy continued, “The dusky woman already knew much of the Fire God’s ways from her training in Asshai, that was what made her such a proper choice. Aboard my ship, I read to her from scrolls recovered in the ruins of Valyria.”

 

“Impossible.”

 

Euron smiled. “It’s deserted, aye. But not as _destroyed_ as maesters and the greenlanders would have us believe. Did you forget about the dragon-horn that won me the Kingsmoot? Some Valyrian forts still stand, just waiting for sailors with the courage and skill to find them.

 

“I taught my slave-woman of the dragon-horn and the scrolls I found with it. They contained incantations of Old Valyria. I made her commit the chants to memory and taught her all she need know of my dragon-horn. If she did what I commanded of her, then I would allow her boy to grow into a man. So gracious was I, little brother, that I even replaced the son I torched by putting a new one in her belly.

 

“She was the bedslave I sent with Victarion. I doubt he fucks well, given how little fight his wife put up when I raped her. But there are worse fates for a slave-woman in my service than my luff-sail brother.”

 

“So she crossed the sea with Victarion?”

 

“Haven’t you been listening, brother-whore?”

 

Aeron ignored Euron’s response and asked, “And the boys?”

 

“What boys? Oh, her sons? They live, but not for much longer.” Euron stared into his brother’s eyes. “Are you cross at me? How many sons of whores and thralls did your _precious_ Lord Balon kill? What do you care about two whelps of a foreign slave-wench?”

 

Aeron watched the Crow’s Eye pace around him in the dungeon cell.

 

Euron stated, “Their blood is necessary.”

 

“Necessary? Why?”

 

Euron Greyjoy raised his torch again, and Aeron watched the firelight reflect off his good eye. _His smiling eye._ “I’ll show you.”

 

He called for two of his guards.

 

Aeron the Damphair had no desire to die at the hands of lost creatures such as them. “These are not men, Euron. If you mean to kill me, I demand that it not be by the hands of foreign cravens. Your mutes are less than men, less than thralls.”

 

With the light of the hallway streaking in, Crow’s Eye said, “They are only here to carry my feeble, little brother. I swear that you will not die by their hands.”

 

“I can walk well enough.”

 

“So be it.”

 

The Crow's Eye led him out of a grey, stone fort on Old Wyk.

 

After his long confinement, the daylight was blinding to Aeron.

 

“Magnificent,” he heard Euron say. “Isn’t he?”

 

As his sight returned, the first thing he saw was a pair of naked boys.

 

“What?” Aeron asked, dumbfounded.

 

“Come now, little sister. This is the most historic of moments in the long years of the Iron Islands. The least I could do was allow you to witness it.”

 

His eyes focused, and the Damphair exclaimed, _“By Nagga’s teeth._ . .” 

 

Euron cackled. “Impressive, isn’t he?”

 

“A. . . a dragon? You caught _a dragon?”_

 

“Better than any of Balon’s thralls, no?”

 

The green beast was chained and submissive. It was laying on its stomach with its wings tucked and bound at its sides. Dozens of Euron’s mutes held the chains in place. A long scrap of leather was stretched over the beast’s eyes and knotted under its chin.

 

“Come here,” ordered the Crow’s Eye to the pair of naked boys. The elder had seen about eight namedays. His ink-black skin was goose fleshed, and he shivered against the salty air. Irrationally, Aeron found himself wondering if the boy had ever been properly drowned.

 

The younger was barely old enough to walk. His skin was a lighter shade than the other’s, copper rather than dusky. Aeron stared at his face for several seconds before he could attribute the boy’s likeness.

 

“He’s yours,” said Greyjoy. “The little one, he’s your bastard mutt.”

 

“Aye, and he’s most important whoreson ever whelped.” Before Aeron could ask why, the Crow’s Eye kicked the older boy in the chest, knocking him to the ground. He continued forward and plunged his dirk into the toddling child’s throat. “Well,” Euron said with a chuckle, _“his blood_ is important, at least. The crabs can have the rest of him.”

 

Even blindfolded, the dragon seem to know what just happened. His reaction to the boy’s murder was uncanny. It struggled against its shackles. It kicked out a leg, throwing over a line of thralls holding that chain. The other teams of mutes kept their footing, and the creature could do no more than squirm. Smoke streamed from its nostrils, but iron fastenings kept its mouth clinched.

 

The squealing child flailed on his hands and knees. Euron Crow's Eye crouched down and cupped his hands to collect some of the blood flowing from the boy’s neck.

 

“Euron, what have you done? This is not our way.”

 

“What good is our way, brother? Balon failed twice. I will succeed in his place.”

 

“You’ll burn the whole of the Iron Islands and Westeros before you succeed at anything.”

 

He laughed. “I’d consider that a success.”

 

Remorseless, he carried the blood over to the green dragon. A hunchbacked, blue lipped servant of Euron’s jammed the tip of a steel, cooking funnel into the dragon’s nostril. He began to chant, but cried out that the dragon’s heat was burning his hands. Euron Greyjoy commanded him to keep steady, then tilted his cupped fingers to let the blood trickle out.

 

“Once more, just to be sure.” Euron calmly returned to his dying son. He lowered his hands into the bastard’s cascade of blood. Greyjoy shouted for the dying child to cease his heaving and be still. When the boy couldn’t stop his gasping and retching, Euron Crow’s Eye kicked him out of the way and scooped blood from the pool of it on the ground.

 

After adding the second dose to the funnel, Euron cried out, “Bound you were to that woman’s blood, _the hornblower's blood!_ The blood I force into you, let it be the bridge between your old master and your new one. I am your true master, you terrible beast!”

 

“Flop him over,” he ordered to his thralls manning the chains. One side held firm, the other heaved, and the dragon was soon laying prone on its back.

 

Euron wiped his dirk on his pant leg, staining it with his son’s blood. He then ran the blade over his own forearm, slicing it open.

 

One of his blue lipped thralls brought him a bundle of black silk. He unfurled the cloth, careful not to touch whatever was hidden inside.

 

“An icicle?” Aeron Damphair questioned, when he saw it.

 

Euron laughed and admitted that he’d almost forgotten Aeron was watching.

 

The ice was shaped like the tip of a sword. No droplets of water were melting off it, and the silk wrappings looked bone dry. Euron squeezed the wound on his arm, sending blood to run down his hand and onto the notch of ice. He delicately took hold of the ice by the covering. With his other hand, he felt along the dragon’s upturned chest.

 

“Ah,” he uttered, “the heart.”

 

In a move more surprising than all the rest, Greyjoy pierced between the dragon’s scales, sending the frozen point into the creature’s heart. The great beast began to shutter.

 

“You’re killing it?”

 

Euron turned around. His smiling eye shined with more malice than Aeron had ever seen from it. “As a drowned man, little brother, you should know better.”

 

The dragon’s limbs went limp, and the exhausted servants released their hold of the chains.

 

Aeron Greyjoy had spent half his life being tortured by his brother. The rest of his years had been filled with his duty to the Drowned God, but his childhood nightmares never left him.

 

_Slaying your own bastard, Euron. Your own flesh and blood. I thought you could stoop no lower. . ._

 

The tongueless servants began to clack.

 

Half a moment later, the slain dragon threw off what remained of its restraints. It sat up on its haunches and clawed at the bands across its snout and the covering over its eyes.

 

 _“What is dead,_ little brother.”

 

_. . . may never die, but rises. . ._

 

The dragon’s coloring had gone paler, into an ashy green. More remarkable were its eyes. They were glowing and blue. An otherworldly, crystalline blue.

 

“Look at me, Aeron.”

 

He glanced up at his brother, who lifted away his eye patch. Beneath the red leather and pasty eyelid, Aeron saw blue.

 

“But. . . but, your eye. . . your black demon-eye. . .” _It’s gone to blue._

 

Still staring at his brother’s new eye, Aeron Damphair heard a howl and felt a rush of cold wind. He tucked his chin and tried to shield his face with his hands. His flesh felt cold, then burned with frostbite. The skin on his hands and face stiffened then split open, in half a hundred thin cracks. His tears froze his eyelids shut.

 

Aeron pissed himself, but that rush of warmth soon left. The wetness turned to ice and hardened, even up into his manhood.

 

He tried to gain control of his hands, but bending his fingers caused the flesh of his knuckles to burst into a fine dust.

 

Blind and in agony, Aeron Greyjoy heard, “How will you take a place at your god’s watery table when there’s nothing left of you? The God of Darkness and Death, _he_ serves _me!_ Feel his power, Aeron. Die. . . and be glad I’ll not make you rise to die over and again.”

 

He tried to scream back, but in his chest, the air itself turned to ice. Strangled from the inside out by his own frozen breath, the last thing Aeron Greyjoy ever heard was the sound of his brother’s mad laughter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another special thanks goes out to Himura for all the help! Also, thanks [Salamon2](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2), [Acce94](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acce94/pseuds/acce94), and many others for your reviews.


	73. Jon - Confronting a King

Jon was readying to settle into bed when he heard a knock on his door.

 

Ser Marwyn Belmore was standing outside the bedchamber and looking a bit confused.

 

“What is it?” Jon asked him.

 

“Lord Baratheon would like a word with you.”

 

“At this time of night?”

 

“Yes. He’s a strange man, don’t you think?”

 

Jon shrugged. “I’ve met stranger.” He watched Ser Marwyn for a reaction as he said, “If I agree to see him, do you expect he’ll poison me or something of the like?”

 

“No, nothing like that. He just strikes me as _strange._ I cannot explain it better.”

 

“Very well,” Jon agreed. “My father’s solar is on the top floor of the keep. Will you show him to it?”

 

Marwyn nodded and strode off.

 

Ser Jon went there and opened the door to the room where his father had so often spent his evenings. The writing table was upturned, so Jon lifted it back into place. The chairs against the wall were wrong. They were from some other part of the castle. _Where did Bolton put Father’s chairs?_

 

“Ser,” he heard from the doorway.

 

“Please, enter,” Jon said and brought over two of the chairs. “What concerns you, my lord?”

 

Stannis Baratheon clenched his teeth before he spoke. “You told me that you do not care about who sits the Iron Throne. I grasp that you don’t wish for me as your king.” He added, “You’re not alone in that.

 

“Ser Jon, if you hide away up here and surround yourself with snow, do you expect that whoever steals the crown will care so little about you? Any man who takes the throne will look to the North and begrudge you every inch you call your own. Which of the pretenders - alive or dead - would allow you the peace you desire? Cersei’s first bastard wouldn’t. Joffrey had no sight beyond his own desires, no sense of duty. Tommen might not be the same, but those who rule in the boy’s name are. Greedy, honorless fools.”

 

“Thus the North should lend you arms?” Jon questioned. “Is that what you mean to say?”

 

“I speak what I mean,” he said, frustrated. “Do not mistake me for other men. You care nothing for my claim. But, what of. . .” The words seemed painful for him. “What do you want? What act or concession or pledge would a king have to make to earn your fealty?”

 

 _Is there any such pledge?_ Jon asked himself. “I don’t know if there is, my lord.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“When Northmen go south, they too often never come home. Let Tyrell and Lannister try to split the Iron Throne. How long do you think those two Houses will be able to share it, before the swords come out? Where’s Dorne been in all this? Why haven’t they declared one way or another, or made any move at all?”

 

“Do you have a guess at Prince Doran Martell’s aims?”

 

Jon shook his head. “I know next to nothing about the man.”

 

“He’s sickly and craven, but cunning too. He has some scheme. I confess I don’t know what. Mark my words, any man who can hold a grievance with the endurance of the Prince of Dorne is only waiting for his chance.”

 

“His chance for what?”

 

“Who can say.”

 

“Alright, my lord. Were you in my place, what would you do next?”

 

Stannis thought for a moment. “What is your place? Lord? King? Knight?”

 

“Not king,” Jon replied, “that much I’ll make clear.”

 

“So you seat your sister in place of yourself.” He narrowed his eyes. “There’s a sense of duty somewhere in that heart of yours. No man refuses a seat that could be his, without some understanding of duty.”

 

Jon thanked him.

 

“Claim the Vale,” Stannis counseled abruptly.

 

Jon could barely believe what he heard.

 

“Not what you expected, ser?” Stannis Baratheon let out a rough, sudden laugh. “The Vale would kneel to you. Or to your sister, if that’s what you would have of them. Their lord is an unfit, weepy boy. He’s not like to survive winter. There are no other Arryns to speak of. Whoever’s lineage _deserves_ the Eyrie, I don’t know. But as I can attest,” he stated with a muted smile, “a rightful claim isn’t everything.”

 

“Well said,” Jon replied. He wanted to hear Stannis Baratheon’s thoughts, so he didn’t interrupt with any mention of Harry the Heir.

 

“Possession of the Riverlands is more trouble than its worth. You’ll lose two men defending the region for every soldier they can raise for you. The Vale of Arryn is the opposite. It’s easily held. Every lord who declares for you costs you nothing to protect in return.

 

“That’s all that being a lord means,” Stannis proceeded and his tone changed. “Men obey and serve and die. In return, you owe them your strength to protect them. Fools and gluttons forget that and die for it. Such lords ignore their duties and soon after their men do likewise.”

 

“If duty is her guide, what should my sister do next?”

 

Stannis ran a hand over his thin beard. “How stonehead stubborn is she?”

 

“Let us assume _very._ ”

 

“The Riverlands are next for her. Her duty is to defend the riverlords and rebuild what the Lannisters burned. It’s likely an impossible task, but it’s her field to hoe.”

 

They were both quiet for several seconds. Jon thought about what holding the Riverlands would entail. He couldn’t guess at what the man seated across from him was thinking about.

 

“Do you still intend to press an impossible campaign?” Ser Jon eventually asked. “Even with what it’s doing to your family?”

 

Stannis took issue with the question.

 

Jon told him, “The men say your wife is at the Wall, so’s your daughter. That’s no place for either of them.”

 

“Where would you have me send them? The Red Keep mayhaps?”

 

“That’s _the last place_ I would suggest, my lord,” he said wryly. “Lord Stannis, the path you’re on leads only to the death of your child and the end of your House. Put off this fight for a generation or two. Father some sons and let them fight this battle during some far off summer.”

 

He could hear the man grinding his teeth, so Jon tried to soften his words. “It’s a wonder where you were born, my lord, as there’s much of the North in you.”

 

He relaxed his jaw just enough to reply, “I suppose that’s high praise from you.”

 

“The highest.” An unusual notion dawned on Jon. “Perhaps I can make use of your life and your stubbornness, if you decide not to throw your remaining years away, my lord.”

 

“What _use?”_

 

“Just a moment, my lord.” He went to the closet and looked through his father’s strewn about scrolls and books. He brought a map back to the writing table.

 

“Look here, if you will. To hold the Riverlands, we must needs carve out stronger borders.”

 

“I heard this once already,” complained the stormlord.

 

“Then you know where the Riverlands are least protected - the gap in the fish hook.” Pointing, he said, “Harrenhal, my lord. That huge, black fortress will become the key to defending our lands. To secure the Riverlands, Harrenhal must be held against any siege.”

 

Changing his demeanor, Jon said, “When my father lifted the siege of Storm’s End, you were half starved and so were the men of your garrison. My father said that they would’ve rebelled against any other man. You held the castle when it couldn’t be held. Or am I mistaken?’

 

“Robert said to hold Storm’s End. I did so. It was my duty.”

 

“It was no small feat, no matter that you refuse to credit yourself for it.”

 

“I don’t need praise for doing my duty. I did what I had to, what any man is required to do in such circumstances.”

 

“Could you do it again?” Jon questioned, raising his brow.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Jon Whitewolf looked hard at Stannis Baratheon. “I would make you Lord of Harrenhal.”

 

“Harrenhal? What claim do I have on that cursed place?”

 

“Do you believe it’s cursed, Lord Stannis, or just difficult to defend?” Jon tried to keep a stern face, but meeting the pair of blue eyes, he cracked a grin. “It is huge and unwieldy and _essential_ to the Riverlands. Sansa and I need someone who can manage it. If you would bend the knee and relent on this misguided allegiance to an impossible duty, I would bestow upon you the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

“You would trust me to do that?” Stannis asked, testing Jon.

 

“I have conditions, but if you fulfill them. . . yes, I would.” He didn’t wait for Stannis to ask. “I’m concerned about how devout you are over R’hllor the Red God. How did that start?”  
  


“Why would the god I take concern you?”

 

“I’ve been to Volantis, my lord. I saw how the guards of the red faith went about the city. _Like mad Gold Cloaks_ is my best description. And since it’s a slave-faith, the High Priest’s soldiers bully only the most vulnerable folk in that hideous city. There’s nothing pious about them. Fanatical, to be sure, but not pious.”

 

“I have nothing to do with them. I don’t bow to any High Priest across the sea.”

 

“But your actions have been worse than theirs, Lord Stannis. Burning men alive? It’s madness.”

 

“I never executed anyone unjustly,” he said flatly.

 

“Interesting way to word it,” Jon suggested. “I would say that _the manner_ of those executions was exactly that: unjust.”

 

“Who are you to lecture me? I saw what your dragon did in the siege. Please, Ser Whitewolf, explain to me the difference.”

 

“That was _during_ a battle. Yesterday, my goal was to . . . I didn’t . . .”

 

Jon changed his position, saying, “Mayhaps you have the right of it, my lord. Viserion and I could’ve attacked differently. We didn’t need to burn those men, I suppose. I can change burning from a first tactic to a last resort.” He asked back, “Does that confession make it easier for you to see the injustice of execution by fire.”

 

Stannis countered, “Melisandre said the Lord of Light willed it. Who am I to argue the will of a god.”

 

“You refuse to see sense,” Jon accused, shaking his head. “Is it that you truly believe burning a man is a just punishment for a crime, or are you deluding yourself to avoid acknowledging your wrongs?”

 

The stormlord stared back. At both temples, the bone shifted beneath his weathered skin, showing just how tightly he was grinding his teeth.

 

Jon said, “One matter that I will make sure Queen Sansa instills in every bannerman beneath her is thus: when a lord decides a man deserves death, it must be carried out by that lord’s own hand. You understood that once, Stannis Baratheon.”  Jon narrowed his gaze. “Davos Seaworth.”

 

Stannis relaxed his jaw. “His fingers.”

 

“Aye, my lord. You shortened them with your own knife.”

 

“He requested it. When I told him I would take his fingers as punishment for his smuggling, he didn’t fight me on it as long I would do it myself.”

 

Jon nodded. “Davos Shorthand is in White Harbor. . . as are his ten fingers.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“The punishment you declared wasn’t the punishment you performed. I cannot know your mind then, but I think that while your knife hovered over the butcher block, you realized that taking his whole fingers would be unjust. And so, you chopped off only the top knuckles of his fingers and didn’t touch his thumb. It’s a lesson in justice, Lord Stannis. If you had passed off that duty on someone else, he would’ve taken those fingers whole. Because you wielded the knife yourself, you were more fair with him.”

 

“And burning a man?" Stannis questioned back. "Not every man has a dragon at his beck and call, ser. I cannot wield fire like I would a knife.”

 

“I indeed command Viserion.” He hesitated, recalling what he freely told Alysane Mormont, but biting back his words. “I know more about fire than any red priest. Fire can be a most deadly weapon, and in winter it can be the difference between life and death. Only a fool doesn’t respect fire. . . and only a lunatic prays to it. A man with any wisdom at all uses other morals to guide his conduct, not the whims of fire. The red god loves only one thing. Some of your knights are the same; they believe the solution for all challenges is, ‘Burn it.’

 

“My lord, I watched how moon-worshipers in Braavos behaved themselves, I sailed with men who prayed to the Weeping Goddess of Lys, and I met tree-singers in a hidden city on Naath. Of all cultures, only Qartheen warlocks are more fiendish than followers of the Fire God.” He pointed and said, _“Your brothers in devotion,_ Lord Baratheon.”

 

Jon took a breath, relaxing his tone. “You don’t seem like a man who would get caught up in such hysterics. You come across as grim, but not fanatically religious - not in the least. Your prayers, of course, are your own. Ask for solace or protection from whomever you like: the Seven, the old gods, or most any Essos god you choose. You may continue directing your prayers to R’hllor if you wish.” He mentioned, “Even if that seems out of character for you.” Jon resumed his prior thought, “But no burning septs. No burning godswoods.”

 

“And no burning of prisoners?”

 

Jon nodded.

 

“For that promise, I get a half-decayed monstrosity?”

 

Ser Jon corrected him, “A _fortress_ and a _home._ ”

 

Baratheon stared at the table, working something through his mind.

 

Jon offered, “If it’s the castle that troubles you, my lord, Darry is smaller and better maintained. I don’t think Bronze Yohn or my sister promised it to anyone, so that would be another option with a similar location and similar responsibility.”

 

Stannis shook his head, keeping his eyes trained on the writing table. “I swore a vow before the Lord of Light not to forsake my duty. I am his Chosen.”

 

“Forget your red god and your misplaced vow. Would your brother rather that you die for his crown? Or instead set new roots in the Riverlands?”

 

He scoffed. “Robert would raise his warhammer overhead and ride straight for the Red Keep. By the time he got there, he would’ve inspired half the realm and have an army at his back made of friends and former foes. I am not my brother.”

 

Jon pressed, “But what would he choose for his younger brother’s life? For his good-sister and for his niece?”

 

“Robert never spared a thought for my wife nor Shireen.”

 

“Well neither are you,” Jon accused.

 

Stannis flinched.

 

“Tell me, my lord, how are you any different? The Wall is the harshest corner of the realm. Hard men hold back wildling raiders and worse.”

 

Stannis argued, “I couldn’t leave them on Dragonstone. I had to send for them before Cersei and the Tyrells besieged it. If I hadn’t, they would be dead or captured.”

 

“True,” Jon conceded, “you saved them. Don’t throw their lives away now.”

 

The man reacted with silence.

 

“Somewhere in that hard heart, Stannis Baratheon, you know that I am right in this.”

 

He still didn’t respond.

 

Jon wondered what he would do if their places were reversed. _Uncle Benjen told me to put the lives of my sisters ahead of aught else. Father . . . he confessed to all of Joffrey’s accusations and thus saved Sansa’s life._

 

“Do you love your little girl?” Jon wondered.

 

Stannis glared at him.

 

“Yes? No? I truly cannot tell which.”

 

“It’s not a question of yes or no,” he growled, still grinding his back teeth. “Duty isn’t a question of affection.”

 

“Can you even speak the word, my lord?”

 

 _“Love,”_ he said coldly. “Does that suffice?”

 

“Will it, my lord? Will this anger you’re showing me suffice for your daughter? What was her name?”

 

“Shireen,” he stated, his voice no warmer. “Shireen Baratheon.”

 

“Give Lady Shireen a home, my lord. Put down your sword. I imagine she’s endured much during your pursuit of the Iron Throne. She’s done enough.”

 

After what felt like a long silence, the Lord of Dragonstone spoke, “I would like to speak to Ser Davos. The smuggler has a nose for such bargains.”

 

“We can arrange that.”

 

“I am surprised he wasn’t with you. . .”

 

“He’s fine, my lord. Wylis Manderly won’t harm him. He and I didn’t know what reaction you would have to our host. Having your Hand as a guest in White Harbor, we thought, would help to avoid bloodshed between you and I.”

 

“I do not look kindly on his imprisonment.”

 

“You don’t have to,” replied Jon. “But our reasoning was sound, and the Onion Knight will be none the worse because of it.”

 

“Lord Manderly pledged to take me as his king. Why has he now turned to you?”

 

“Lord Wyman never thought he would survive the battle for Winterfell. He never expected to live to see White Harbor again.”

 

“And that’s his reason for breaking his oath?”

 

“Manderly didn’t know Queen Sansa and I were coming north. Regardless, I suppose you’re right, my lord. He’s breaking his promise to you. That oath is no more than a few moonturns old. His oath to the Starks of Winterfell goes back centuries. If he cannot uphold conflicting oaths, you and I both know which he must needs choose.”

 

Stannis scoffed his discontent. “No matter what you and Manderly think, I’m no beggar to be bought off with a pittance.”

 

Jon began to argue that Harrenhal was hardly a few coppers, but Stannis didn’t let him finish. “Bending the knee to this child queen of yours. . . I won’t do it. No, I can gather other supporters.”

 

Jon glanced at the shuttered window. “That mix of wildling cudgels and knightly swords amounts to only two thousand, Lord Baratheon.”

 

“I do not mean them,” he stated harshly. “I have _other_ supporters.”

 

“Very well, keep those _other supporters_ to yourself. I wish you luck against the Lannisters, I truly do. But I must have your word to surrender all claim over the North, the Riverlands, and our friends of the Vale.”

 

“By what right do you make such demands?”

 

“By right of conquest, my lord. By-”

 

“Spare me,” retorted Stannis. “I am not the only one who can belabor a point.”

 

Jon smiled at that.

 

Lord Stannis continued, “If I give you my word on that - not that I am doing so yet - what assurance do I have that you’ll not bring a new war once I have my hard-won throne?”

 

“On my lord father’s honor,” Ser Jon said. The solemnity of his voice seemed to make his case better than any further discussion possibly could.

 

After several breaths, Jon added, “You sent your Hand, Lord Seaworth, to White Harbor. The man performed a service to Lord Wyman, which the Manderlys are honorbound from rewarding properly. Stannis, my lord, allow me to fulfill that debt.”

 

“Proceed.”

 

“I offer you nine ships out of Lord Wyman’s fleet, enough for you to sail your men to Dragonstone or King’s Landing. And regarding your wife and daughter, every lord and landed knight within my sister’s kingdom will know that your family shall have safe passage through their lands.

 

“What I ask in return,” Jon continued, “is peace from you and all future Baratheons, and for you to determine that the Manderlys have repaid you in full.”

 

Stannis ran his fingernails over his bald scalp. Jon watched for him to grind his teeth, but he did not.

 

Baratheon said grimly, “They cannot stay at the Wall. The days grow too cold for that. I cannot delay gathering the supporters I mentioned. Even if I could wait, I surely can’t bring my daughter into battle. . .

 

“Your father was always Robert’s man, not mine. Even his final act, sending me word of his proof of Joffrey’s birth, was done for Robert, not me. . .

 

“Ser. . . I should have gone to Robb Stark. Davos advised as much, but I was too lost in my own pride. The reason I gave Davos was that your brother wanted to steal half my kingdom. That was a lie. Aye, and the worst kind. I was lying to myself.”

 

“When was this?” Jon questioned.

 

“Before I entered the war,” he responded. Stannis let out a long sigh, as if suddenly weary. “I didn’t want the realm to think I went begging to a stripling boy. I wanted my throne. . . but I wanted it _on my terms._ I yearned to win my crown, as Robert once did.

 

“Had I gone to your half-brother with Ned Stark’s letter in hand. . . what would he have done?”

 

It took Jon a second to recognize that the question was directed at him. “My lord, you had a letter penned in our father’s hand, and it said that Joffrey and Tommen were the Kingslayer’s bastards?”

 

Stannis nodded.

 

“Robb could never have refused you. No,” he said, shaking his head. “Robb and his bannermen, who all loved my father, they would’ve bent the knee to you, just to follow Father’s last wishes.”

 

Stannis blinked away whatever his next thought was and said, “It serves no one to linger on past roads taken or overlooked.” He straightened his posture. “I will swear to uphold the independence of the Vale and the Kingdom of the North and the Trident. The Starks and Arryns will be left to their own determinations. I will absolve Lord Manderly of his oath to Lord Davos and to me. For this, I accept the offered ships, but demand one concession not mentioned.”

 

“Please, my lord, I’ll hear it.”

 

“On the honor of Ned Stark. . . you, that sister of yours, and all your guardsmen will swear to safekeep Princess Shireen and Queen Selyse here in Winterfell.”

 

“My lord?”

 

Baratheon raised his brow and made a small grin. “For all my difficulty with you, Ser Jon, I know the worth of your word. I have nowhere else I can send them. . . You have your castle back, ser. If I could leave them in any castle, where in the Seven Kingdoms could my daughter and wife hope to stay beyond the reach of Lannister claws? 

 

"Shireen’s not to be a hostage,” he growled, clenching his teeth for a moment. “My daughter will be returned to me when I send for her. You shall swear not to ransom her to anyone, not even if the Lannisters capture your sister and demand Shireen for her return.”

 

“I understand, my lord. On Queen Sansa’s behalf, I swear to protect your family as if they were mine own kin.”

 

“Good.”

 

Jon expected to hear more from Stannis, but that single word seemed to settle this grand compact.

 

“I will prepare my men to leave as soon as possible.”

 

Ser Jon nodded his understanding. After a moment, he added, “May I ask where you’ll take your ships? I can promise to tell no one, besides my sister.”

 

The stormlord began to mull it over.

 

“If something happens to you,” Jon said, “your family will want to know where and why. Tell me, so I’ll be able to explain it to them.”

 

“Braavos,” answered Stannis Baratheon. “The Iron Bank has pledged to fund my war.”

 

Jon asked why they would favor one candidate for the Iron Throne over another. Stannis scoffed and stated, “They care nothing for my rightful claim. _Like others, I need not mention. . ._ " He gave Jon a sideways glance. He then resumed, "The Braavosi bankers care deeply for their reputation, however. If lords and princes believe they can renege on their debts without consequence, the Iron Bank loses all leverage. If, instead, they show rulers the world over that they'll topple even the Iron Throne of Westeros for what amounts to, for them, a mundane sum. . .”

 

“I see,” Jon concluded. He stood up and extended his hand. “By the old gods and the new, I will not surrender your wife or daughter to your enemies.”

 

Stannis clasped the offered arm. “And I swear that your queen will have only peace from me, once I take my rightful crown.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks goes out to my on-the-hop betas.


	74. Arya - Syrio the Squire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since my last update, so for every reader who's kept up with this story I want to assure you that I haven't forgotten about it. More adventures soon.

Lord Harys Swyft had insisted that _Syrio Sevenlives_ was too lowborn to be his squire, but Arya Stark wasn’t deterred. From the morning their charter arrived in King’s Landing, she trailed after the Knight of Cornfield like a shadow. The man needed help with most everything he did: climbing steep stairs, organizing scrolls, carrying ledgers for the Small Council, and Arya, with a shaved head and tireless resolve, lent a hand in each task. After only two days, Swyft relented. He allowed Arya to accompany him everywhere, though he still refused _Syrio_ any formal title.

 

As his acting squire, Arya Stark followed behind the anxious Master of Coin again on the fourth morning in the capitol. Her arms were so full of books and scrolls that she could barely see where she was going.

 

“Boy,” Swyft said as they walked, “remember not to speak in the council chambers.” After a moment of thought, he added, “Unless they ask you a question. Yes, yes. I suppose if they do you will need to know. . .”

 

Lord Swyft stopped in the hallway to catch his breath. Before going any further, he resumed what he was saying, “You’ll need to know who is who, young Syrio. First, there’ll be two high lords wearing green. The younger is Lord Mace Tyrell, Hand of the King. The elder is Lord Garth Tyrell, Master of Whispers. Then, Lord Paxter Redwyne is Master of Ships. He’ll be present or his son in his place, Ser Hobber. Lord Randyll Tarly is the Master of Laws, and Grand Maester Gallard is the grand maester, of course. Nymeria Sand is the woman. I don’t know if the queen will attend. . .”

 

Arya rolled her eyes at how poorly he was describing the Small Council, but didn’t let the Master of Coin see the gesture.

 

She and Swyft reached the end of the hallway. Guarding the door and looming above Harys Swyft was a man in white. Arya recognized his armor, his cloak, and his face. _Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard._

 

“Come along Syrio,” she heard Swyft utter hastily.

 

Once they entered the Small Council’s chambers, Arya heard someone exclaim, “Finally!”

 

“Beneath all that parchment,” said someone else, “your urchin boy best have some gold for us.”

 

“Lord Mace, Lord Garth,” Swyft greeted them. He took a seat and waved Arya closer. Harys rummaged through the bundle she carried, taking out what he wanted. “Now wait against the wall, in case I need anything else.”

 

Two knights were standing beside the door, right where Swyft had pointed. One was Ser Meryn and the other was a knight with an anchor on his breastplate. Several rose-cloaked squires fidgeted near the two men grown. Arya instead went further down and took up a place beside two servants, each bearing a pitcher of wine.

 

She looked back at the Small Council. The Hand of the King sat at the far side of the table. Behind him hung a wide tapestry depicting knights fighting in a river. The fabric was dull and dusty from age. On the adjacent wall was a decoration too long for where it hung. That tapestry was bunched at one end, but bright and new. It showed a green and silver knight jousting against a man with no helm.

 

“Go ahead,” Mace Tyrell urged. “Proceed quickly.”

 

“Do as your ill-fitting name suggests,” japed Garth. The elder Tyrell reached across the lavish spread of peeled fruits. He bit into a halved peach, dripping juice from both corners of his mouth.

 

“Of course, my lords,” bleated Harys Swyft. “My mission to Braavos had both success and difficulty. I persuaded several Braavosi money-changers to lend gold to the throne. The Iron Bank refused all my overtures on the grounds that the crown had already balked at keeping up with its payments.”

 

“Was that the successful part,” chided Lord Garth, _“or the difficulty?”_

 

“My lords. . . a price was placed on my head.”

 

Garth the Gross snorted, “If it was half-a-groat, I say they paid too much.”

 

Both Tyrells laughed at the jape and at the Master of Coin.

 

Swyft glanced sheepishly at the others. He said, “It was the Faceless Men. They sent an assassin after me.” He called, “Syrio, my boy. Come here. Tell the council what the Sealord of Braavos said.”

 

In her best sounding boy’s voice, Arya recounted the meeting between herself, Swyft, and Sealord Antaryon. She finished quickly.

 

Harys Swyft added, “I believe it was Tyrion Lannister’s work, my lords. I have good cause to think that he murdered Gyles Rosby, my predecessor as Master of Coin. In addition to his slaying of his father, his uncle, his nephew, and Maester Pycelle.”

 

Lady Sand looked skeptical, but Mace Tyrell considered it thoughtfully. “Mayhaps,” he said after several seconds of quiet. “The Father knows the Imp was guilty of kinslaying twice over, if not more.”

 

“Away with you, boy,” ordered Garth Tyrell.

 

Arya knew he meant for her to leave the Small Council’s chambers, but she only returned to her place beside the wine pourers. None of the council members seemed to notice that she lingered.

 

Lord Mace turned to the Grand Maester and questioned, “Any word from Lord Tarly? Has Storm’s End fallen?”

 

Maester Gallard shuffled his scrolls without reading any of them, then answered, “Yes, to the first, my lord. No, to the second.” He explained, “Lord Tarly’s raven stated that he stopped his march at the edge of the Kingswood. You see, the forests near Storm’s End were picked clean by Lords Renly and Stannis, and the sellswords now infesting the Stormlands. Lord Tarly’s host is building rams and scaling ladders from Kingswood trees and will haul them to besiege their target. It shall be slow going, but I believe they have little choice.”

 

“So be it.”

 

Lady Nym leaned up in her chair and asked, “What of the rest of the Stormlands? Surely my lord won’t leave them to suffer under foreign sellswords. . .”

 

“What would you have me do?” Mace shot back. “Storm’s End first, the lesser castles must needs wait.”

 

Nym ran a finger down her cheek. “My lord knows what I will counsel.”

 

“Bugger that,” argued Lord Garth the Gross.

 

Mace Tyrell nodded. “Dorne’s spears have waited in the Boneway all this time. There they shall stay.”

 

“So my lord will do nothing?” Nym prodded, trying to provoke him.

 

“Cersei Lannister,” he yelled too loudly. Tyrell looked around for a moment, before realizing that the queen was absent. “She allowed her father’s army to return to the West. Maester Gallard, send ravens to the Westermen. I want that army recalled. My good-son will have to choose a new Warden of the West to lead the bannermen into the Stormlands, once they’re ready. _A Western host,_ rather than the Dornish, will be best suited to drive the sellswords from our king’s shores.”

 

Ser Hobber Redwyne countered, “It will take a long while, my lord.”

 

“I’m patient and we have the time.”

 

The Reachmen all nodded to the Hand.

 

A step behind the others, Lord Swyft wondered, “A _new_ Warden of the West? Ser Daven Lannister is a most capable commander. Has he somehow displeased the king?”

 

“You might say he did,” Lord Garth said in retort. “He got himself slain.”

 

“How? Who would. . ?”

 

Dispassionately, Nymeria Sand recounted, “You will recall the madman ranting in this very chamber about she-dragons in the Riverlands?”

 

“Hardstone Plumm.”

 

“That’s the madman,” she confirmed to Lord Swyft. “Seems Ser Daven was with Ser Edwyn Frey’s army beside the Twins, making ready to march forth once more. This. . . _dragon_ swallowed whole our newly wedded Warden of the West.”

 

“At least the Mother - in her mercy,” Hobber Redwyne said, solemn as a septon. He touched his chest and made the sign of the seven-pointed star. “Spared him a worse fate. . . a long life as the husband of a Frey.”

 

Garth the Gross nearly toppled from his chair, he laughed so hard.

 

Mace raised his hand, beckoning for attention. “Let this council not fall sidetracked. Lord Swyft, our dear Master of Coin. . .” He began shaking his head. “Your failure puts the Throne in a poor state.”

 

Redwyne nodded. “We had great need of that Braavosi gold.”

 

Swyft insisted, “I did all I could, my lords. The small amounts from the money-changers was hard bargained for. I was turned down by the other lenders, aye, but not for want of trying. When the crown refused the Iron Bank, trust in us was lost.”

 

Maester Gallard, siding with his fellow Reachmen, offered, “Queen Cersei’s mis-dealings were folly. She might now be, strange as this sounds, the only solution to the problems she created.”

 

“Explain that, maester.”

 

“The Iron Throne must needs look to Casterly Rock to avoid destitution.”

 

“It’s true, my lords,” agreed Lord Mace, now that the matter had been made plain. “The Lannisters are the only lenders left to us.”

 

Ser Hobber questioned the maester, "Is the queen mother truly the Lannister to aid us in this?"

 

"Well," mused the Hand. "A younger son - a prince - born to King Tommen would be of Tywin's direct line and the highest born, permanent heir. Until such time, my lords. . ."

 

Gallard offered, “Queen Cersei named a Lannister cousin as castellan and he remains so for the nonce. He’s in his later years, but far from feeble. And yet, mayhaps a knight in his prime years would serve more. . . ably.”

 

After thinking for a moment, Redwyne said, “Ser Jaime set aside his claim when he donned the White Cloak. Tyrion is disgraced, missing, and likely dead. Lord Tywin had brothers, if memory serves.”

 

"All dead," answered Nymeria Sand.

 

"Pardons," responded Lord Swyft. "Queen Cersei is now Lady of the Rock, no?"

 

Mace Tyrell said back, “Are you the Master of Coin or the royal fool? If the queen mother was willing to fulfill the needs of the Throne, would you have e’er needed to ship off to Braavos?” He gestured for the Grand Maester to resume his thoughts.

 

Maester Gallard paused to offer Swyft a conciliatory nod. “Queen Cersei Lannister is the lady, by rights. King Tommen is the heir, with his offspring to follow him. In the coming years, however, I believe we can find a more suitable castellan than an obscure Lannister kinsman. Of Lord Tywin's late brothers, Kevan Lannister was the second born and since his impish nephew slew him, Ser Kevan’s claim moves to his own sons. The eldest is,” he recalled, “Lord Lancel Lannister.”

 

Mace wondered, “Didn’t he. . ?”

 

“He renounced the Darry lordship to ride with the Warrior’s Sons.”

 

“What kind of a weepy fool would freely hand over Castle Darry?” asked Lord Garth with a snort.

 

"Would he suit the Iron Throne's wishes?" Lord Mace asked the Grand Maester.

 

Ser Hobber advised, “If Lancel Lannister’s beseeching the gods over on Visenya’s Hill, let us summon him here.” 

 

Gallard fiddled with his archmaester’s ring. “Not long past, I sent a messenger for Lord Lancel. . . that I might ask him of Castle Darry. I was told the young man had ridden out with a squadron of his fellows on a task for the Faith.”

  
“We need not over-trouble ourselves,” suggested Garth. “Send a raven to Casterly Rock bearing Tommen’s seal and offering that castellan _the opportunity_ to aid his king. If the man fails in his duty. . . let us cross that ford once we reach it, and not trouble oh pious Lancel or the Faith until we do.”

 

Nodding, Redwyne said, “Well the High Sparrow, to be sure, isn’t at our beck and call.”

 

Mace stated, “This High Septon isn’t like his predecessors. He’s implacable. He sold everything of value in Baelor’s Sept, even the fine robes afforded to his position. With the coin he garnered, His Holiness buys food for followers he deems sufficiently pious.”

 

“More’n just food,” the Gross mentioned, wiping his chin. “He purchased arms, armor, and horses for the _Poor-no-more_ Fellows. Since the sparrows took over Baelor’s - with their clubs and pitchforks - the Most Devout have been fasting their bellies lean and scrubbing their knuckles bloody under the High Sparrow’s watchful eye.”

 

Lord Mace suggested, “Mayhaps an internal conflict within the Faith will solve for us any disputes between _the scepter_ and _the throne._ ”

 

The Grand Maester cautioned, “He is no fool, my lord. Do not misjudge him.”

 

Tyrell scoffed, “He chose a life of stale bread and an empty bed, how clever can he be? Uncle,” he addressed Garth, changing the flow of the discussion. “What do your informers know about our Northern troubles?”

 

“The smallfolk piss themselves over stories of an ice dragon. A great, white beast roaming the North and Riverlands.”

 

“My lords,” called out the anchor knight standing beside Ser Meryn. “I can speak to this matter.”

 

The Hand told him to come over. “Ser Jasper Melcolm, what do you know of dragons?”

 

The man said, “My lord father saw the beast with his own eyes. Ser Jon Whitewolf, Ned Stark’s natural son, indeed commands a dragon.”

 

 _But Jon died at sea a long time ago._ She spared a moment to reflect on how much she missed her dear, bastard brother. _So who are they talking about?_

 

Ser Hobber, Maester Gallard, and Lady Nymeria looked deeply concerned by yet another account of a dragon in Westeros. Mace Tyrell, in contrast, appeared bewildered.

 

Lord Garth jumped in, “That’s why you asked for all you did, ser? Chains and trebuchets and scorpions and such? _To fell a dragon?_ You truly believe this farce about dragons come again?”

 

The clean shaven knight glanced around the table, reading their expressions. He hesitated to offer an answer.

 

Redwyne turned in his seat and looked to Mace Tyrell. “This troubles me, my lord. Haven’t we heard enough about a dragon that we can no longer ignore the whispers.”

 

The Master of Whispers acknowledged, “Certainly had no lack of rumors.”

 

“If you’ll grant me a small host of knights,” Redwyne directed to the Hand. “I would ride forth to discover the truth of these rumors.”

 

Garth Tyrell replied, “What _knights,_ Ser Slobber? Do you think my nephew has an extra host hidden in his saddle-bags?”

 

“It needn’t be a large escort.”

 

“No, Ser Hobber, no,” offered Maester Gallard, holding up one long finger. “These are dangerous days and the Riverlands are in turmoil. Anyone we send must be well guarded.” He glanced first at Mace Tyrell, then at Nymeria Sand. “My lady, you brought a well-armed guard on your journey from Dorne to the capitol, did you not?” To the Hand, he suggested, “Lady Sand’s keen mind would be an advantageous asset for the Small Council. With her Dornish company and Ser Hobber to safe-keep her, mayhaps she could find the truth of what’s happening in the long leagues north of the Dragon Gate.”

 

Mace stroked his chin. “With her Dornish knights? Very good, maester.”

 

Nymeria scowled at Gallard.

 

The Grand Maester said, “Whether you like that the task falls to you, my lady has the mind to recognize how necessary it is. What threatens the Crownlands today may indeed plague Dorne severals moons hence. My lady, we must learn whether there’s any truth to the rumors. Ser Jasper and Lord Melcolm might not be correct on whole, but can we dismiss the claims without first investigating them? For that task, Lady Sand, the Small Council has no one more able to act as our eyes and ears than you.”

 

The woman didn’t look pleased by the compliments, but seemed grasp a degree of wisdom within the maester's words.

 

Mace Tyrell glanced away from Gallard and towards Jasper Melcolm. “Where is your father? I’m hard-pressed to believe _he saw a dragon firsthand,"_ he said feigning seriousness, "and then failed to bring this tale to his king directly.”

 

“My lord father couldn’t defy Yohn Royce openly. Not until we completed our bargain with Cers- _with His Grace’s Small Council,_ ” Ser Jasper said, catching himself. “If it please you, my lords, my actions prove House Melcolm’s loyalty to the Iron Throne.”

 

Arya watched Nymeria Sand. Her face gave nothing away. Arya Stark suspected that the Sand Snake was thinking hard on something.

 

Mace’s expression was mixed. “You did your king a service, ser. . . but you bargained for it by sending ravens to the queen mother, not to me. I will forgive that indiscretion just the once. I am regent for my good-son, not Cersei Lannister. Never forget that.

 

“You are the eldest of your brothers,” Mace Tyrell continued. “Are you not?”

 

Melcolm looked surprised by the Hand’s change in tone. He hesitated before answering. “I have no brothers, my lord.”

 

“Even better,” Tyrell replied with a grin. “Have you had the chance to see the queen about court, whilst waiting for Lord Swyft to return with your gold?”

 

“Her Grace? No, we only corresponded by raven.”

 

“You wrote to her?” he said back, confused.

 

“Not _Cersei,_ ” Lord Garth admonished. “The Hand asked you about _the_ queen, you lunk. Have you seen _Queen Margaery?”_

 

“Oh, forgive me. No, I have not.”

 

“Well, Her Grace has several cousins as her ladies-in-waiting. The Faith’s arrest of them botched their marriage prospects, no matter that the charges were proven false. You will wed Lady Megga Tyrell as the final condition of our agreement.”

 

“Which one is she?” Harys Swyft blurted out.

 

Ser Hobber and Lord Garth exchanged a look. Redwyne’s straight face broke first, and he said, “She’s the loud, fat one.”

 

Garth the Gross saw Melcolm’s sour reaction. He slapped his overhanging belly and shouted, “What’s so wrong with fat and loud!”

 

Jasper said humbly, “I shall agree to discuss the particulars of such a marriage, my lord. But with far more urgency, I ask you to believe my father. You need a strategy to combat the dragon, my lords.”

 

Concerned, the councilmen looked to the Hand of the King.

 

Mace Tyrell, with a grin across his face, called an end to the day’s discussions by saying, “Further talk of dragons can wait for the morrow. Snarks and grumpkins, the day after.”

 

* * *

 

Harys Swyft left the Small Council’s chambers and made his way outside. The wind rushed inside as soon as he opened the door. He wrapped himself in his cloak and just stood in the Red Keep’s outer courtyard.

 

Arya took hold of his elbow. “Allow me, milord.”

 

Together they progressed through the wind and chill. The apartments granted to Lord Swyft and his retainers were located inside Maegor’s Holdfast. Arya kept him steady over the icy drawbridge to the innermost grounds of the Red Keep.

 

Not a moment after they stepped inside the entryway of his quarters, one of Swyft’s Braavosi sellswords came up to them. He asked in the Common Tongue, “I need squire. Yes?”

 

“Fine,” replied Lord Swyft, still shivering.

 

“Come with me,” the swordsman told Arya in Braavosi. Once they were alone, he whispered, “I learned about where they keep a prisoner girl. The one you look for, as best this man can tell.”

 

“Yes. . ?” she coaxed.

 

“She’s in Hand Tower.”

 

“Fucking hells,” Arya spat. She had suspected Lord Tyrell would be keeping Sansa in his own tower. However, she’d hoped for the dungeons or somewhere similar, where she could slip easily into.

 

“Syrio Sevenlives will need these,” said the bravo. He pushed some clothes into her hands. “Now go. . . and do not forget my service.”

 

“I won’t,” she pledged. _“Valar Dohaeris.”_

 

_All I must do now. . . sneak into the Tower of the Hand, find my sister, and sneak back out with her. All without drawing the attention of the Tyrells, the Lannisters, or any of the Red Keep’s countless spies._

 

_Seven hells._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts on the plotlines of this fic as well as your reactions to this chapter. Cheers and thanks!


	75. Jon & Sansa - Hope and Dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to GRRM. This story was written for fun, not profit.

Ser Jon and Viserion circled above the Kingsroad, riding the winter winds. Since winning back his family’s castle, he’d exchanged ravens with Wylis Manderly in White Harbor, and Ser Wylis agreed to escort Jon’s kin to Winterfell. With enemies still in hiding and the Dreadfort not yet subdued, Jon Whitewolf determined to take no chances in seeing his family safely home. He’d met the party at the barge landing off the White Knife, about midway from White Harbor.

 

Jon and Viserion continued their watch as the train of sleighs neared Winterfell.

 

A queen’s welcome greeted them. Jon hadn’t thought to organize anything, but was glad to see that Lord Manderly had done so. The lords were in arranged in a column with their respective companies standing at attention behind them. Ser Wylis rode beside Sansa’s lead sleigh and they crossed through the castle gates. Several horns blew and the lords knelt, one after the next. Their soldiers and servants did likewise. Queen Sansa signaled from them to rise, and Wylis helped his lord father up off the snow.

 

Viserion descended to the top of East Gate, startling the horses below. Only when the outer gates were shut and braced did Jon relax and slide from the dragon’s back. He walked down the steps of the turret. Sansa was speaking to Lord Manderly and Lady Dustin. _Welcome home, my lady sister._

 

Jon left them to their courtesies and politics, as he went to Lady Lydrea’s horse drawn sleigh. Wanting no assistance, Rickon Stark leapt of the back and landed in the snow. Jon offered a hand to help Lydrea down. Instead of taking it, she passed him a bundle of wool and fur. If not for the wriggling, he couldn’t have guessed his daughter was hidden within. He pushed down the scarf covering her face, so Halya could better see her father’s boyhood home.

 

Within him, Jon’s heart warred with itself. Seeing his family in Winterfell gave him such pleasure, but reminded him all the more of the loved ones forever lost to him.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Wyman Manderly escorted Queen Sansa Stark into the Great Hall, where he had prepared a feast in honor of her and Rickon. Steam rose from the platters as they were brought out from the kitchens. Sansa sat in her father’s seat on the dais. She had barely a moment to think before her lords began to catch her up on Jon’s rulings since reclaiming Winterfell from Roose Bolton. Queen Sansa did her best to follow all the voices directed to her. She nodded at something one of the Umbers told her about the snows further north.

 

_Which of them is called Crowfood and which is Whoresbane?_

 

Though diplomacy was a strength of hers, Sansa wished she had more time before the Northmen required her to concentrate. To her, the Great Hall looked the same - save for new timber in the rafters - but the smell of it was unfamiliar. She focused her attention on what her bannermen and the knights from the Vale were telling her. They had much to say regarding Jon’s commands. Queen Sansa deftly acknowledged what the noblemen told her, while not committing to any ruling yet. The more she heard, the more Sansa grew uncertain with how to feel about her brother’s actions. Nevertheless, she held her tongue regarding such doubts.

 

After the drawn out supper, she offered her thanks to the Valemen and the Northern lords. Sansa took her brother aside as she left the dais and told him to follow her. They walked quietly from the Great Hall and all eyes were on the North’s young queen.

 

Jon Whitewolf wanted to show her the progress underway to repair what parts of the castle Ramsay Snow had burned. Sansa tried to seem attentive, but her mind lingered on the praise her bannermen had hoisted upon Jon.

 

“It feels so empty,” he said, and she glanced over. “The castle is full to bursting of course, but. . .”

 

Sansa nodded. “It’s still _empty,_ I know.”

 

“I wonder if this is how Father felt when he came home from Robert’s Rebellion.”

 

“Mayhaps,” she said thoughtfully.

 

He escorted her to the stables, the kennels, and the First Keep. New shelters for the hounds and horses were nearly complete, but nothing could be done for Winterfell’s oldest tower.

 

He began to say something about the state of their father’s solar, but Sansa interrupted him. “Jon, please stop. Look,” she insisted. “You’re not Lord of Winterfell. You’re not the king.”

 

He didn’t seem to understand.

 

“Offering pacts to Lord Baratheon, plotting an attack on Torrhen’s Square-”

 

“Oh that,” he responded. “I can explain about Stannis, and Crowfood Umber hasn’t left yet.”

 

She shook her head. “You were wrong, Jon. Acting without consulting me, that usurps my authority.”

 

“I’m not trying to disrupt things for you. I swear.”

 

“That doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head again. “Those lords see how you act. They see how much you look like Father. When you command them, they hear _Ned Stark’s voice._ Don’t you have any idea what happens when lords wish for a _potential liege_ over the current one?” Sansa saw that he didn’t understand. “They kill the current one, Jon.”

 

“I’d never try to kill you,” he insisted.

 

“No, you wouldn’t.” She put a hand on his arm. _“Of course not._ But what if one day I happened to. . . _fall_ from the wall-walk and die? No one sees it, no one confesses. What would you do?”

 

“I don’t. . .”

 

“Because that’s how they’ll do it. One day, I’ll turn up dead. It will appear as some tragic bit of chance. The lords will then clamor for you to claim the crown.”

 

He wondered, “But what about Rickon?”

 

 _“Jon,”_ she stressed. “Aren’t you listening? Why do you think the Tyrells murdered Joffrey? They wanted Tommen instead. Don’t you grasp what’s at stake? Margaery and her grandmother. . . nothing happened to them - not one thing - after they killed one brother and replaced him with the other.”

 

He stepped away. “I didn’t. . . Sansa, I didn’t think of that.”

 

“Come along,” she said and offered her arm. She wasn’t angry with him, not truly. _A ruler must be wary of treachery,_ she knew. Sansa started in the direction of Guards Hall and the godswood. “Please, ser. Now that you have my ear, I would hear your thoughts on the matters of the kingdom.”

 

Jon made a little snort and then began to speak. They discussed the Riverlands and Stannis Baratheon, who had recently march out from the castle. Jon detailed his plans for securing the Trident and the coastlines. Sansa asked him for his thoughts on the loyalty of Lady Dustin and Lords Ryswell, Stout, Locke, and the others.

 

Once he concluded, Sansa Stark replied, “You did well. I see no reason to reverse any of the pledges you made.”

 

Jon gave her a bemused look.

 

“I’m not losing my wits. I never thought you were acting against me, and you have vastly more experience with fighting and with war tactics. Just. . . I need you to bring these important matters to me, rather than just issuing commands to the lords. Showing them the line of authority, well, it matters.” She smiled. “Now, go look after my niece. She’s waited long enough to see you.”

 

Jon didn’t seem pleased by that, nor did make a move to walk away. “There’s something else,” he said with hesitation.

 

“What is it?” Sansa asked. His sudden seriousness made her anxious.

 

Jon took a deep breath then began, “Alysanne Mormont and Lord Stannis both insisted that the Boltons had Arya, before she and Theon escaped together. I told them it wasn’t possible. . . that Ramsay never had her.”

 

Sansa stared back.

 

“Stannis told me that he sent her to ride for Castle Black, with an escort.”

 

“To Uncle Benjen?”

 

“Aye,” he answered. “I first asked Viserion to fly north and look for her on the road. She found no one. Lord Baratheon then suggested that mayhaps the snows turned her back. See, he left Theon shackled in a forsaken, little keep. I decided to go there myself.”

 

“And?”

 

Jon recounted, “Me and Viserion flew out. The crumbling tower we found was guarded by only three boys. They were huddled around a fire pit. At the sight of the dragon, they fled into the woods. We landed, but I found the door braced from the inside. I called out for Arya and said who I was. I could hear someone moving about inside, but the door stayed barred. So I used my sword like an axe. It blunted my sword and my fingers went numb, but how could I delay?

 

“The bottom half gave way and I slipped inside. ‘Your sword,’ a voice said. ‘Little, bastard boys aren’t allowed to play with live steel.’ I turned and saw a withered old wretch. The prisoner hung from chains, and his shoulders bent upward at an unnatural angle.

 

“ ‘Jon Snow,’ said that. . . that still-breathing corpse. ‘You have to remember your name. Oh yes, yes. You must.’

 

“I asked the man if Arya Stark was there.”

 

Sansa wondered, “Was she?”

 

Jon continued, “This shackled wretch. . . he smiled at me. The few teeth still in his mouth were no more than shards of bone. He answered, ‘Why should I know? Oh, there’s things I know and things I don’t. But, Arya Stark? I found one sister, but that one’s mine. Yours? Why-’ That was when he just stopped all of a sudden.

 

“I heard my name whispered and jumped back. The second voice came from a corner of the floor not three feet away. Did my best to gathered my wits and ask, ‘Arya?’

 

“The whisper repeated the name back to me. Deep in my chest, honestly, something about the voice terrified me. I asked, ‘Are you. . . alright, little sister?’ The figure fled across the floor, crawling away. So I said, ‘It’s only me. It’s your stupid, big brother.’ I didn’t want to scare her, so I didn’t move. Instead, I took a better look at the skeleton on the wall.

 

“It asked me, ‘Something catch your fancy, little bastard boy?’ ”

 

Jon paused. “Theon Greyjoy. It was _Theon_ chained up and looking like a feeble old man.”

 

“What about Arya?” Sansa wanted to know.

 

“Just listen,” he replied. After a nod from her, Jon resumed, “Seeing the state Theon was in, I feared: if that’s what happened to him, what must they have done to her? Well, I said, ‘Arya, please. . . No matter how you look, no matter what horrors they did, you’re still my little sister.’

 

“Theon laughed at me, but it sounded like half a death-rattle in his lungs. Then the girl’s voice said, ‘I’m. . . Theon said I was no more than. . .’

 

“It wasn’t Arya,” Jon explained. “I knew so then. I dragged the brazier closer to the dark corner and asked the girl who she was. Theon sounded beyond mad, calling out, ‘You have to know your name, but does Jon Snow know hers? Does he?’

 

“The girl asked if I remembered her. Her eyes looked sunken into her face and were ringed with black circles. But it was. . . it was Jeyne Poole.”

 

Sansa stumbled back at his news of her closest friend. _Jeyne Poole? I never heard what happened to her after Cersei and Littlefinger took her away._ “Was Jeyne alright?”

 

Jon didn’t answer right away. “The boys Stannis assigned as her escort, I made them bring Jeyne and Theon to Winterfell. Both were half-starved and easily shared a horse. For now, Jeyne’s in her old room, but. . .”

 

“But what?”

 

“She’s changed,” Jon said. “She’s terrified of everything. Refuses to admit she’s not Arya, even to me.”

 

Sansa responded, “I have to see her.”

 

“I expected that. Go ahead. But don’t forget, Theon’s down in the dungeons for now.” Jon made an embarrassed shrug. “I wasn’t sure what to do with him. Whether we needed him as a hostage or not. Same with his sister, Asha Greyjoy. Lord Stannis brought her with him, as she could withstand the march and Theon couldn’t. We’ll need to decide their fates. But. . . steel yourself before seeing Jeyne Poole.”

 

She nodded to him, then hurried off to check on her friend.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Ser Jon dreaded how Sansa would react to Jeyne Poole’s condition. She had told him only the barest details of what Ramsay Snow had done to her. Jon feared what horrors the girl might recount to Sansa. He tried to put aside those worries and went to the Great Hall to find Halya.

 

Earlier, he’d been leery of letting his daughter roam Winterfell when the castle was so full of strangers. Lydrea’s immediate comfort surprised him. She had assured him that their daughter and Rickon would be safe. Jon only relented after his wife said, “Ghost is with her and Shaggy’s with Rickon.” With a smile, she’d added, “No one here would dare to harm Ned Stark’s little boy. . . or the daughter of Jon Whitewolf.”

 

Throughout the afternoon of his arrival, Rickon Stark would cut right through the ranks of men everywhere he went. His black direwolf howled and charged through the crowd in their way, forcing the men to make a path for the boy. Doing her best to keep up, Halya would hold onto the hood of her young uncle’s cloak everywhere they went.

 

Where one direwolf would leap ahead of the children, the other stayed close behind them. Silent and steadfast, Ghost was as different from his littermate as the colors of their fur.

 

Jon entered the Great Hall and at first didn’t see the children. He began to pace around the edge of the hall. Not a minute later, the pair made their way through the center aisle of the repaired chamber.

 

The lingering soldiers swung around on their benches to stare. Rickon and Shaggydog climbed the dais with abandon. The huge wolf snarled at the bearskin across Mors Umber’s back. Crowfood let out a boisterous laugh in response and tried to appease Shaggy with a lamb shank off someone else’s plate.

 

Halya was slow to follow, but not out of fear. The steps were a struggle for her. Mors Crowfood leaned over to lend a hand, but Ghost showed his fangs. The direwolf caught the back of Halya’s tunic in his teeth and carried her up to Rickon.

 

“Fine, you great bloody beast!” Umber hollered. “Was jus’ going to help.”

 

Rickon and Halya took only a few spoonfuls of porridge then decided to linger at the table no longer. The boy jumped off the edge of the dais. He fell to the floor, but was back on his feet in an instant. Halya crept down the steps backwards and one foot at a time. Rickon pulled her off the last one, and they rushed off.

 

Two tables from the aisle, a burly old wildling stood up. He shouted something in the coarse language of his people. The man was Jon’s height, but much broader through the shoulders. His grey beard hung down to his chest.

 

Jon didn’t understand what he hollered, but Rickon and Halya seemed to. They stopped in place. The children looked around to see who’d said the guttural words. The men seated on the benches in between slid out of the way, making a gap for Rickon to see the last wildlings still in Winterfell. Once he did, rather than saying anything back or running away, he pointed at the man and nudged Halya.

 

In her high voice, Jon’s little girl made a sound like four hacking grunts.

 

The wildling and his fellows erupted in laughter. The burly one took the horn from about his neck and blew until his cheeks turned red.

 

The little girl looked first embarrassed, but Rickon made some face to her and Halya’s expression turned to pride. They sprinted the rest of the way down the aisle and out into the snow, one direwolf charging ahead of them and another following behind.

 

Jon pushed off from the wall. He started after the children, but stopped when he caught sight of Lydrea. She stepped down from the high table and gave him a wave, telling him not to worry, then went after the children herself. Jon lingered in the Great Hall and walked over to a table of northern clansmen.

 

Big Bucket Wull pushed one of his men away, making room for Ser Jon to sit beside him.

 

“Ale, boy?” he greeted.

 

Jon shook his head. “Did you catch all that, my lord?” He gestured at the table of the nine wildlings Stannis left behind.

 

The chief of the Wulls grinned beneath his hearty beard and questioned, “Your girl that was?”

 

“Aye, my Halya.”

 

Big Bucket slapped Jon on the back. “A daughter of the North, to be sure!”

 

The other clansmen began to chime in, but Jon stopped them. “Wait, wait. What was said, my lord?”

 

Wull waved his arms, gesturing for his men to shut their mouths. “That wildling’s a well-heeled raider. Tormund the Blowhard, we call him. He shouted at your lordling brother and your girl, but really the words was for his men. In the Old Tongue, he said, ‘They’s got Free Folk blood in ‘em, they do. King Warg and Princess Skinchanger!’ ”

 

“And what did my daughter say back?”

 

“Was _how_ she said it, lad.” Lord Wull laughed. “She called him the icky part of the seal-blubber.”

 

“Most like, the worst curse she knows!” another clansman added.

 

Jon smiled at that and stood up to leave. “Thanks, my lord.”

 

Big Bucket raised his cup. “A toast,” he called out. “To Lady Halya. . . Halya the Vulgar!”

 

“Halya the Barbed!” hollered another, meeting Wull’s cheer.

 

Jon gave the chieftain a thump on the back and left the table with a grin across his face.

 

Afterwards, he was in the castle yard tossing snowballs for Halya and Rickon to catch when Ser Marwyn Belmore found him. “Ser Jon,” the Valeman said, breathing heavy. “Her Grace asks for you.” He’d come from the direction of the Great Keep.

 

“Something with Jeyne Poole?”

 

Belmore shook his head. “Her Grace has a letter. We don’t know when the raven arrived. No one noticed the bird until now. Seems urgent.”

 

Jon took his leave of his daughter and brother. He strode to the Great Keep and up the stairs. When he stepped into their father’s solar, his sister was standing at the writing desk. She held a strip of parchment in both hands. Her face was red.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Sansa tore the letter in two. She beat her hands against the desk, as if to smash the tabletop into splinters. Too quickly, her knuckled ached and she stopped.

 

She realized Jon was there. His mouth hung open. He said nothing, but his eyes asked about what he’d just witnessed.

 

“Read it, for all I care.”

 

He picked up one of the pieces and read aloud:

 

_“. . . Tommen is our king. To prove our loyalty. . . over as a hostage to face the throne’s justice. The. . . no queen of yours.”_

 

Sansa shouted, “They took Robb’s window and killed Albar!”

 

“I. . .” Jon stammered. “Why? Who would. . ?”

 

“Lord _bloody_ Melcolm, that’s who!”

 

Her brother bent down to pick the rest of the letter.

 

“Don’t bother,” she said, willing herself not to cry. “Lord Melcolm’s son, he tricked his way into the Gates of the Moon.”

 

“But why?”

 

“Do you think his reason matters? Greed or something else.”

 

Jon ran a hand over his brow. “We’ll get her back.”

 

Sansa knew he was trying to reassure her but wanted none of it. _Another one of us taken prisoner by Cersei. . ._

 

Jon asked, “What about your cousin?”

 

She scoffed. “Shit on Sweetrobin’s head. He’s unharmed, or so the letter says.”

 

 _But Ser Albar’s dead. Sweet, simple Albie Royce._ The letter said he died valiantly, as if that would make his murder palatable. According to the raven, once they'd opened the gates for Ser Jasper Melcolm’s disguised company, there was little the modest garrison could do. Albar Royce and the two knights hoping to join Sansa’s Honorguard, Lucas Corbray and Mychel Redfort, led an impossible charge and the three knights died in defiance. Several guardsmen died at their side, but most laid down their swords once Albar was cut down by Ser Jasper.

 

 _Lord Melcolm will pay for his actions,_ Sansa told herself. But Lady Waynwood’s letter suggested it’d been Cersei Lannister who organised the kidnapping. _It’s Cersei who now holds Jeyne Westerling._

 

_Cersei, the woman who took Father prisoner and cast him into the Black Cells. She and Joffrey took Father’s head. . . and mounted it on a spike beside Septa Mordane’s. At the hands of the Lannisters, I was beaten, stripped before the whole court, and forced into a marriage. They tried to make me fuck Tyrion, and Joffrey didn’t hide his desire to rape me. . . Cersei bloody Lannister, the witch who handed Jeyne Poole over to Ramsay Snow, the most vile man in all of Westeros. Now that bitch has her claws on Robb’s widow, poor Jeyne Westerling._

_What will Queen Cersei do to her?_

_Will she throw Jeyne in the Black Cells, then take her head?_

 

_Will the Lannisters gift Jeyne Westerling to a vicious raper? Someone who’ll throttle her neck, tear her breasts, slash her, and force her to let dogs. . . penetrate her?_

 

Sansa wanted to vomit. _What possible depravities will that Lannister cunt sponsor this time?_

 

It was all too much to bear. After all she’d suffered these last years, seeing her best friend made into some quivering mouse and learning that the same might be happening to her brother’s widow. . .

 

She drew up to her full height. Hot tears filled her eyes, but she couldn’t help that. “The Lannisters must pay,” she declared to Jon. “I will send a raven demanding they release Jeyne Westerling. You and your she-dragon will fly for Casterly Rock.”

 

“Casterly Rock?”

 

“Burn it, Jon. Burn it into nothing.”

 

* * *

 

Looking around her mother’s chambers made Sansa miss her all the more. Her hands were still shaking and her cheeks were still wet with tears. Fixing up the bedroom, however, was all she could do to keep from obsessing on what Jeyne Poole had been turned into and what might already be happening to Jeyne Westerling. Sansa had yet to overcome the dread from her own captivity. _I thought I had seen cruelty. . ._

 

She forced her attention back to the bedroom. Lady Walda Frey had been residing in there. Sansa wondered why anyone would’ve changed the room from what it used to be into its current state. Momentos that had always been there were missing. Above the stone hearth, the mantle was still there, but Lady Stark’s priceless treasures weren’t. Among them, Sansa recalled a ceramic pot. She touched the circle in the dust where it used to rest. It wasn’t anything intricate or fancy, just a blue-glazed pot decorated with bear cubs, pups, and ducklings. Catelyn had kept the first baby tooth lost from each of her children in that pot.

 

The duckling pot used to hold up two patches of cloth, pressing them against the backing. _The Maiden and the Crone,_ Sansa remembered. Long ago, she had told her sister to embroider the image of the Mother, to go along with the Maiden she was stitching. Arya, true to form, chose instead the Crone just to avoid doing what Sansa asked.

 

She circled around the bed and saw the walls scored from what might’ve been flames. _Was it you, Fat Walda, who ruined my mother’s chambers or your step-son, Ramsay?_

 

Jon had smartly sent riders after Ramsay Snow with varying orders. In addition to the conventional trackers scouring the lands, he ordered two parties to ride straight for the Dreadfort. Jon’s thinking was that should the Bastard of Bolton slip past the others, the final two groups would be laying in wait for him near the hillside fortress.

 

Sansa put her hip to the new bed, which was a sack of straw compared to her mother’s, and inched it toward where it was supposed to be.

 

The door flew open. “What _madness_ came over you,” seethed a voice.

 

Sansa found Jon’s lady wife fuming in the entryway and began to ask her, “What do-”

 

“Close your cursed mouth, you feeble child,” Lydrea urged. She didn’t raise her voice, but there was no mistaking her fury. “Casterly Rock? What selfish fancy pushed that idea into your fickle head?”

 

“Now, that’s enough.”

 

Lady Hornwood pursed her lips. “After the dragon’s first breath, the Lannisters will raise the alarm. How many thousands of crossbows will Jon have to brave? Viserion might survive. Jon won’t.”

 

“The Lannisters have to pay for kidnapping Jeyne. They _must_ see the North’s strength.”

 

“You mean to say your own strength. Do not mistake this for aught else. You care more for insulting Queen Cersei than you do for Jeyne Westerling or Jon.”

 

Sansa was taken aback. “Insulting her? Dragonfire is more than that.”

 

“Why Casterly Rock, then? Why not send Jon all the way to _King’s Landing?”_

 

Sansa furrowed her brow. “Because we cannot save Lady Jeyne by burning down the city around her.”

 

Lydrea groaned in frustration. “I didn’t mean that seriously! King’s Landing, the Red Keep, how many arrows and catapults would Jon face? How many times over would they kill him?”

 

“You aren’t privy to my strategy,” insisted Sansa. “This is about far more than insulting Cersei or whatever you suspect, my lady.”

 

 _“My lady,”_ she said sourly. “Will courtesy make me forget what it’s like to mourn a husband I thought dead? Will it, _my queen?”_

 

“I am, indeed, your queen, Lady Lydrea.”

 

 _“Queen Cersei. . . Queen Sansa,”_ she muttered in the same roiling tone. “The Northmen don't really care for you as their queen. It's _Jon_ they follow. Jon supports you as queen, so the lords accept it. But if my husband _\- my daughter’s father -_ dies on this fool's errand. . . Sansa, you'll discover whether your bannermen truly want you for their liege. If Jon dies, I'll raise support for Rickon as King in the North and I'll succeed. When I do, I shall expel you from Winterfell. See if I don't. . . _Your Grace._ ”

 

Lydrea slammed the door and left Sansa to stew over the accusations.

 

She thought hard on how wrong her good-sister was. _Lydrea doesn’t understand. She was off galavanting with the Skags, while I was a captive to Cersei and her bastard._ Sansa wished to run after the older girl and slap her treasonous mouth.

 

_What makes her think she can say such things to me? Usurping my place? And worse, stealing Winterfell? She has not the first idea whom she’s quarreling with._

 

* * *

 

The next morning arrived and Sansa was no less furious with her good-sister. Still, she stood in front of the Great Keep with Rickon, Halya, and Lydrea to see Viserion and Jon off.

 

Sansa refused to withdraw her orders, however, she made a concession due to Lydrea’s words. “Lannisport,” she told him. “Not Casterly Rock. The Rock will have scores of bowmen loosing bolts before Viserion burns through its walls. Lannisport is kindling by comparison and in torching it, the Lannisters shall pay all the same.”

 

For a moment, he looked ready to argue. Sansa had no idea why he might object to the change. Nonetheless, Jon schooled his face and inclined his head dutifully.

 

Standing in the snow, Rickon acted like saying his goodbye was a boring chore. Halya let Jon give her a hung and offered a cheery, “Bye bye,” but didn’t seem to grasp the situation. Lydrea walked straight up to him and with a surprising boldness, she kissed him in full view of the entire castle. The men whistled and howled, but the normally decreet young woman didn’t seem to hear them.

 

“Foun’ it!” someone yelled from the doorway of the Great Keep. Moments later, Osha had pushed her way through the onlookers. “I found it,” she said, holding up a knight’s helm. “Under Rickwyle’s bed, it was.” She handed it to Lydrea, who passed it to Jon.

 

“See?” prodded the Lady of Hornwood Castle. _“I told you_ Rickon’s not happy you’re leaving.”

 

Jon looked over at him. “Is that what you thought? That I wouldn’t leave if I couldn’t find my helm?”

 

“No!” yelled the boy.

 

Sansa watched her older brother take the borrowed helm out of his pack and replace it with his own. He came over to Rickon and assured, “I’ll come back, little brother. The Westerlands are but a short jaunt when you’re riding a dragon.”

 

Rickon eyed him suspiciously.

 

Jon handed over the spare helm. “May I give you this?” he asked. “It’s too loose for you now, but when I return we’ll stuff some padding inside. Then you can use it for sparring.”

 

“Sparring?” he questioned.

 

“Aye. With swords. I think you’re old enough now for a wooden sword. When Viserion and I get back, I’ll teach you like Father first taught me.”

 

The boy didn’t say anything else. He didn’t reach out for Jon. But as Rickon backed away, he had his arms wrapped around that steel helm.

 

Jon looked up from his brother and over to Sansa. “The Lannisters will pay for all they’ve done. Me and the dragon will put such fear in their hearts that they’ll have no choice but to return our good-sister.” To the rest of his family, he pledged, “I’ll return soon. I promise.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my editors over at DLP. You guys are all kinds of awesome.
> 
>  
> 
> Reactions and comments to this chapter are appreciated.


	76. Jon - On to Lannisport

Flying on the shoulders of a dragon brought Ser Jon Whitewolf an exhilaration he could scarcely believe, no matter how many times Viserion had carried him into the sky. Jon forced his sight back into his own eyes and opened them once more. Seeing through Viserion would allow Jon to take part in the act of flying, but inhabiting his own body brought an entirely different excitement.

 

_Dragons are made for flight and never scared by it. Northmen, however, are not._

 

Jon’s innate fear of sailing through the air added to his enjoyment of it. The whipping, biting winds stung his face, thus he couldn’t sit high in the dragon’s saddle for long. Soon after, Jon relaxed his legs and laid flat against Viserion’s scales.

 

She knew to follow the coastline, which they’d done since cutting across Flint’s Finger. Jon wasn’t familiar with the terrain, but eventually they would fly over castles and towns he could identify.

 

The passing hours left Jon with a glut of time to dwell on the endeavor ahead of him. Sansa had insisted that they needed to prove their strength to the Lannisters, but that couldn’t settle the disquiet in his mind. _Lannisport is surely safer than Casterly Rock to strike at,_  he admitted. _Still, I’d much prefer that we were to burn a martial target. The Rock would hold more soldiers than servants. The city in its shadow, however. . ._

 

Viserion, Jon knew, didn’t share his trepidation. To her, setting a city aflame seemed as natural as the hunting they had done at dusk the day before.

 

_Burning a city. . . It is not the same, dragon._

 

Jon reminded himself of what Lord Tywin’s men had done to the Riverlands. _The Westermen made no distinction of soldier from smallfolk. They slaughtered and raped their way from the Red Fork to Maidenpool._ His conscience quieted for only a moment. If I burn Lannisport. . . will that make me no better than the Mountain?

 

Ser Jon knew that Robb had kept to a higher standard of honor during his invasion of the Westerlands. _Oxcross, Ashmark, and the Crag, three battles and three victories with nary an unjust death._ Such was Robb Stark’s bravery that he won the admiration of many, even in the West.

 

_Alas, I’m not my brother._

 

Jon wondered, _Should I prevail, what will I earn? Certainly not admiration._ He supposed that the riverlords might be pleased to hear of the retribution their young queen ordered done to the Lannisters who so ravaged their peoples.

 

With his cheek against Viserion’s scales, Jon mouth twitched into a bitter smirk. _With daring, Robb invaded the West and won himself Jeyne Westerling. With cruelty, soon I’ll torch the West. . . and mayhaps I’ll win the freedom of the very same lady._

 

* * *

 

On their fourth day of travel, Jon saw a seaside castle that was in such a poor state he asked Viserion to bypass it. They continued several leagues further, but saw nothing else. Ser Jon decided to circle back to the half-ruined castle.

 

“That _rubble_ had to be it,” he said of the way-stop they were searching for. The Banefort had been unmistakable the day before, as the black hood on their banners stood out from the snow coating everything but the sea.

 

Reaching today’s castle, Jon thought, _Dragon, this is it. This is where we set down. This is. . . my last refuge before I reach irredeemable cruelty._

 

He looked for landing perch, but the castle seemed to have more ruined towers than intact ones. A mound of piled snow sat to one end of the castle yard, and Viserion caught sight of it. She wanted to bring her talons crashing down into it. Jon didn’t share her cheer. For him, this would be a serious day, not one for mauling snow piles. Still, he didn’t fight her.

 

They came to a rest in the snow. Jon struggled to free his boots from the stirrups, but once he was out of the saddle, Viserion shrieked a warning at the snow mound then attacked it with her teeth and claws.

 

Jon wondered how the castle would react. He cried out, “Have no fear! I come only to treat with Lord Westerling of the Crag!”

 

Some minutes passed, and then he saw the first face come outside. Jon crossed the shoveled yard and inclined his head at the old man, who did likewise in return.

 

“Lord Westerling?” Jon asked him.

 

“Who are. . ?”

 

Before introducing himself, Ser Jon proposed, “Give me your word and grant me guestright within your castle, and I shall return you my vow not to violate the laws of hospitality.”

 

“Very well,” the man answered. “I accept your word and assure that you have mine.”

 

Jon came forward and extended his hand. “You _are_ Lord Westerling, aye?” The man nodded. “I am Ser Jon Whitewolf. Son of Ned Stark, brother to King Robb, and good-brother to Lady Jeyne.”

 

Lord Gawen Westerling backed away.

 

“Do not fear, I’m not here for reprisal.” Jon looked him in the eye. “I am here to beg a favor.”

 

* * *

 

Viserion soon exhausted what vigor remained after the day’s flight and settled into a sheltered gap between two abandoned towers. To Lord Gawen, Ser Jon pledged that the dragon would cause no harm, as long as no one disturbed her. Westerling sent a servant to spread his command to leave Viserion alone, then showed Jon to the eating hall of the Crag.

 

Ser Jon met Lord Westerling’s eleven year old son, Rollam. He was courteous with the boy, knowing he’d briefly squired for Robb.

 

The lord next called over his daughter and introduced her, “Ser Jon, I believe this is who you seek. My daughter, Jeyne, is pleased to make your acquaintance.” The maiden was four-and-ten. She kept her hands on her dress and bowed at the waist.

 

Jon stared at the girl, confused. “Why would you give the same name to both daughters, my lord?”

 

Westerling’s eyes went wide.

 

“Oh,” Jon Whitewolf muttered, grasping the situation. “There’s no need to mask which daughter this is, my lord. I know Lady Jeyne quite well.”

 

The young girl sighed with relief. “Where is she? When’s Jeyne coming home?”

 

Jon frowned. “Would that I had a better answer, my lady. I left her in the Vale under the protection of a trustworthy friend. But the castle fell to a cloaked assault, and Lady Jeyne was turned over to the Iron Throne.”

 

The three Westerlings gasped.

 

“I endeavor to free her,” Jon told them. “That is the reason I’m here.”

 

Lord Gawen tried to calm his children. He told them to leave, but Eleyna and Rollam refused. “Fine,” he said, relenting too quickly. Something seemed to weigh on the man, and he wouldn’t look his children in the eye.

 

Gawen, Eleyna, Rollam, and Jon went to a table. Lord Westerling offered Jon the head chair, but he declined it and instead sat at the lord’s right hand. The table was covered by a woven tablecloth, nonetheless it wobbled when Jon leaned his elbow upon it. The chamber was well-maintained in comparison to other parts of the Crag, though sparsely furnished.

 

“Wine?” offered Westerling.

 

Jon replied, “I have my own,” and untied a wineskin from his belt.

 

“It’s not _poisoned,_ ” chastised young Eleyna.

 

“I’m glad to hear it,” he returned, shooting a glance at the too-clever maiden. Jon offered a polite lie, insisting that he just preferred his own drink.

 

“My lord,” Jon said, gaining the man’s attention. “I haven’t idly chosen to arrive in your keep riding a dragon. You are the closest to a Westerman I can trust. Viserion and I make for-” He stopped. Jon gestured toward Rollam and Eleyna.

 

Lord Westerling sighed and said, “They may listen. Please continue, ser.”

 

“The dragon and I make for Lannisport. . . to burn the city.”

 

Lord Westerling and his children were shocked.

 

Jon explained, “Cersei Lannister knew what was at stake when she played a part in the kidnap of my brother’s lady wife. Queen Cersei made her choice, leaving me and my queen with the duty I’m here to fulfill.” He saw concern on Eleyna Westerling’s eyes. “My sister, Sansa Stark, is now Queen of the North and the Trident.”

 

“Not Jeyne?”

 

“No, my lady. But your sister will be welcome in Queen Sansa’s court, once she is free.”

 

“Ser Jon,” addressed Lord Westerling. “How will you free her? Won’t they kill my daughter if you attack them? The Lannisters don’t suffer aggression.”

 

“They will suffer mine,” he said with steel in his voice.

 

“I doubt Cersei wields much power within the Red Keep,” countered Gawen. “Not after all that’s come to light.”

 

Young Rollam replied, “Mace Tyrell’s lord regent. When he gets to see what comes of provoking the North. . . well, Lord Mace is no Lord Tywin.”

 

“What would you have of me in this, ser?” wondered the boy’s father.

 

“My lord, I pledged to raze Lannisport into nothing and I won’t break my word in this. However, I have no desire to. . . burn children in their homes. I come to you asking this: Will you go to Lannisport - or to Casterly Rock if you believe you must - to see that word of Viserion’s coming reaches the right ears. I would let the highborn and low evacuate. They must needs lose their city, but they needn’t be burned as well.”

 

“Evacuate?”

 

“Aye, my lord. I don’t know how to undertake such a thing. I don’t know if any will heed the warning. Yet. . . I couldn’t live with myself without offering them the chance.”

 

Gawen reacted with silence.

 

His son spoke up, “What if they trap you? Crossbows, scorpions, and all.”

 

“That concerns me,” Jon said with a nod. “But not as much as the thousands of lives.” He looked to the elder Westerling. “ _A day,_ my lord. Whoever governs the city, I would grant him one day. It’s time enough for the people to begin to flee, but not enough for a sturdy defense against a dragon.”

 

“A noble gesture at the least,” said Westerling.

 

“What if they’re already ready?” insisted Rollam. “What if they heard of your dragon? If they know already. . .”

 

Jon smiled at the boy. “A sharp notion. Should the Lannisters be ready. . . the she-dragon and I shall face them in combat. It wouldn’t be the first garrison we’ve laid low.”

 

They discussed the specifics of the warning. Jon told Lord Westerling that he would have to go himself, as a raven wouldn’t carry the same weight as a lord’s word. Once matters were covered between them, Gawen took his leave to prepare an escort.

 

Still seated, Jon watched servants bring out an early supper. He thanked them, but ate only of the salted strips of meat in his pouch-pocket.

 

Several quiet minutes passed between Jon and Lord Westerling’s son and daughter, then abruptly Eleyna said, “This is foolish.” She pushed her plate across the table.

 

Her younger brother said, “Right.” He picked up his plate and slid half his meal onto the platter Eleyna had just given Jon.

 

“See, ser?” she prodded. “We’re not choking on poison. This all won’t kill you.”

 

“Right,” agreed Rollam.

 

Jon smiled, thanked them, and accepted Eleyna’s fork. “I haven’t been certain of whom to trust,” he confessed. “I suppose I can rely on the honor of you two. Coming to the Crag, I was worried about your. . .” Jon didn’t finish the remark.

 

After several mouthfuls of the freshly cooked meal, he tried to sound unfussed as he wondered, “Is there a reason your lady mother hasn’t come to join us?”

 

The two Westerlings looked at each other.

 

“Is something wrong?” Jon asked.

 

Rollam stated, “She’s not here. Father sent her away. He sent her to be a silent sister.”

 

Eleyna added, “As punishment for our brother.”

 

Jon felt guilty for his questions. He tried to show his sympathy, offering, “Your brother died at the Twins, yes? Along with mine.”

 

The boy looked away. After a moment, he got to his feet and left without another word. Jon glanced over to Eleyna Westerling.

 

“It makes him mad, talking about King Robb.” Jon asked why and she said, “Just does. Like it was Rollam’s fault or something. That’s how he is now. Father’s worse,” the girl went on. “He acts scared of me and Rollam. It’s not the same anymore, nothing is.”

 

“I understand that,” Jon offered.

 

He resumed eating, in silence. She just sat there, watching him. Jon felt incredibly awkward. He said finally, “You were at Riverrun, my lady. Aye?”

 

“I was.”

 

“The Blackfish had fine things to say of you. You see, I was there too. I was outside the castle.”

 

“You were?”

 

“I waited for Ser Brynden. I was surprised to discover your sister with him, but we three escaped together. The Blackfish said Jeyne’s little sister was very brave to switch places. You made the escape possible.”

 

“I tried,” she answered. “Would that I kept hold of her crown.” Eleyna looked up at him, but Jon didn’t understand and shook his head. “Jeyne’s crown. . . King Robb gave her it. I tried to keep it, but Mother stole it from me. She handed to Ser Jaime the Kingslayer.”

 

 _Sansa would’ve liked to have it,_ he thought. Aloud, he said, “I’m sure you had no choice, Lady Eleyna.”

 

“I didn’t. Mother just ripped it away.”

 

Jon looked at her face. The girl was younger than Sansa. “Once I go after the Lannisters,” he said, “you might not be safe here. None of what’s happened - or what’s to come - is your fault, though it might not matter. You could leave,” he suggested. “Queen Sansa would welcome you at Winterfell.”

 

“I don’t know. . .”

 

“Discuss it with your father, Lady Eleyna. For even if he stays, mayhaps he could send you and your little brother north.” Jon sighed. “The offer stands.”

 

* * *

 

There were close to two hundred miles for Lord Westerling to ride between the Crag and Lannisport. In the North, such a ride would be a trial, but the West was seeing only dustings of snowfall this early into a new winter. Gawen Westerling said he could make the journey in six days. Jon granted him seven. “After that,” he’d said, “I will come for the city. See that you’ve begun your return journey by then.”

 

* * *

 

In the shadow of Casterly Rock was a massive harbor. _Lannisport,_ Jon thought as it came into view. The docks were mostly vacant. From high above, he could see lines of ships anchored a half-mile offshore.

 

_A good sign for Lord Westerling’s warning._

 

Through the ocean air, Viserion drifted closer. An encampment stood outside the walls of Lannisport. Looking down, Jon supposed that the tents were filled with fearful inhabitants waiting to discover if dragons had returned to the world. Those townsfolk would survive the day; Jon wondered, though, how many would survive winter after their city burned. He reminded himself that this wouldn’t be the first time Lannisport had been destroyed. From the boy that Theon Greyjoy used to be, Jon knew that the ironmen of the past had sacked the seaside locality dozens of times and burned it more than once. _And the Ironborn never gave anyone the chance to evacuate._

 

_But the city’s not empty. . ._

 

Against all his hopes, Lannisport wasn’t deserted. Knowing the duty before him, Jon tried to muster an anger. All he could feel was pity.

 

_Gods forgive me. . ._

 

He and Viserion flew over the city walls. Jon held her back from loosing her fire. _We will burn the docks first. We’ll give the smallfolk a last chance to flee._

 

Jon held tight to the dragon and they dove. Viserion took a deep breath, then rained her fire over the harbor. The wooden docks caught the flames. Spray from the waves splashed beneath. The wet wood caused thick, black smoke.

 

The dragon howled her pleasure at the destruction. Despite his conscience, Jon felt a part of himself sharing her enjoyment. He straightened his back and tucked his elbows, crouching just inches above the dragon’s scales. Viserion circled again, this time setting fire to buildings at the water’s edge.

 

 _Stay higher,_ he told her. Jon didn’t want a stray arrow to reach them. . . or the sound of anyone’s screams.

 

The dragon fluttered her powerful wings, gaining height before she began another turn in the air. Jon clung to the saddlehorn and balanced his weight between the strapped-in stirrups. His knees quivered, anticipating the descent.

 

The she-dragon plunged. The wind rushed over him. Jon crouched lower, bringing his chest against Viserion’s hide. He held his breath as they cut through a cloud of smoke. Jon’s legs struggled against the force of his own weight, and he felt Viserion’s wings pulling hard against the strength of her chest. She delighted in the strain. His stomach did flips until the dragon crossed the lowest dip of her flight, and they set fire to the city below.

 

Wind off the Sunset Sea pushed the flames further into Lannisport. Like weaving yarn, Viserion crossed over the city and added row upon row of fire.

 

 _It’s burning,_ Jon assured her. _Let’s scorch the city gates._

 

They looped around to the edge of the water on the far side of Lannisport. Beneath Viserion’s breath, the city walls began to melt and twist. The wooden beams within the guard posts charred and crumpled, causing sections of the fortifications to collapse inward. Even with Viserion to shield him, Jon still felt the heat from the fires below.

 

The dragon flew just above Lannisport’s walls, following their curve around the city.

 

In the distance, Casterly Rock loomed.

 

“Not even you could. . .” he told Viserion. “It’s a mountain of rock, ringed with crossbowmen. You’d get us both killed before you did any real damage.”

 

The dragon tilted her wings and left Lannisport behind.

 

Casterly Rock stood out from everything around it. Viserion sailed where she pleased, but at a distance beyond the reach of a crossbow. It was a remarkable place, made more so from Jon’s vantage. He tilted his head and observed the castle all the way around. The trail of hills that led up to Casterly Rock were dwarfed by the red-brown mountain. No matter what he’d heard of the Lannister stronghold, Jon didn’t expect it to so truly be built into rock. The cliff side was ringed with battlements cut into the stone. Balconies and windows loomed hundreds of feet above the adjacent sea.

 

 _Ser Edmure’s in there,_ Jon thought belatedly. _He’ll never escape a place like that._

 

Viserion had never laid her eyes on the Lord of Riverrun. Nonetheless, Jon knew she could feel his desire to free the knight he’d once squired for. In turn, Jon felt her share his contempt for the Lannisters.

 

_You know how I feel about them, dragon. These men who think themselves untouchable. . ._

 

“Wait!” he tried to scream.

 

The sound didn’t carry in the wind, but it wouldn’t have mattered; Viserion had already set her mind to flying closer. The dragon beat her wings, thrusting them forward. Faster they flew. Suddenly, she tilted her forelimbs and pushed herself upward. Viserion climbed into the sky. Her shoulders ached and her heart pounded. The dragon struggled to keep her speed as she carried her companion to the top of the mount.

 

She folded in her wings and touched the apex of Casterly Rock. Viserion’s claws slid across the dust and gravel. She lurched forward, catching her breath. Jon slipped his boots from the stirrups and slid down Viserion’s side. Jon’s legs ached from the ride; he sat in the gravel and rubbed the soreness away.

 

Standing before him was an empty, little keep on the carved-flat summit. Jon found an odd calm atop the fortified mountain. Being so far above the still-aflame harbor made the destruction of Lannisport seem somehow a smaller act.

 

After a short while, Jon heard voices start up inside the keep. A door opened and a man stepped outside. In the entryway behind him stood a column of bowmen.

 

Jon called over, “Better that you come out alone, my lord. Unwise for your archers to provoke this dragon.”

 

The short, old man shook his head at the bowmen and closed the door behind him. He was bald and draped in red silks. He held up both hands and asked, “Wh-what do y-you want?”

 

Jon pushed against the ground and got to his feet. “Burning Lannisport fulfilled a debt, my lord. I’ll spare the people who fled the city and leave Casterly Rock be, if. . . you free Edmure Tully.”

 

“Tully?”

 

Jon hadn’t planned to make any such demand until the words left his lips. He kept a stern face as he realized this bluff might work. “Aye, my lord. Put Lord Edmure on a horse and send ravens to your bannermen saying that he shall be neither harmed nor hindered.”

 

“Harmed?”

 

“No, my lord,” Jon said patiently. “He will _not_ be harmed.”

 

“And that cr-creature will go?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Westerling foresaw this. . .”

 

Ser Jon didn’t respond.

 

“I suppose the queen ca-can't,” the man murmured to himself. “I cannot be faulted for. . . Wh-what choice do I have?”

 

“Do as I ask and you’ll have nothing more to fear from the dragon. Just. . . while you have your stable master prepare a horse for Tully, you will bring him up here to see me. Aye?”

 

“I . . . I shall, my. . .” he hesitated. “By what are you called?”

 

Ser Jon began to think of several of addresses that might suit him. However, he held back. Any title that he could claim, no matter how true it was, would’ve felt like boasting. Against the backdrop of a towering pillar of smoke stretching into the clouds, even mentioning his knighthood didn’t seem appropriate. “Jon will be fine,” he finally replied. “Just _Jon,_ my lord.”

 

He continued, “No one of this castle will set foot outside, besides you. Especially no bowmen. It wouldn’t serve either of us, should someone provoke the dragon.” For the castle’s benefit and his own, Jon stressed, “Casterly Rock would make for the biggest oven in the world, if the dragon so chose.”

 

The red-cloaked man bowed and returned inside.

 

While he waited, Jon paced over to the edge. _Three quarters of city’s burned,_ he guessed. Jon thought that was enough. He glanced over at the dragon resting in the sun. _Anymore than that, Viserion, and we might’ve torched the makeshift camps outside the walls. Three quarters destroyed, that’ll suffice to dishearten the Lannisters and Tyrells both._

 

He looked out at the waters beyond Lannisport. _It has no memory, the sea. A battle can rage between a thousand ships, but soon the waves forget. The shore will bear the scars of today for years to come._

 

A clamor caught his attention. Edmure Tully was fighting against the Lannister men bringing him. With one last push, the guards threw him outside.

 

Jon hollered, “Aren’t you going to unshackle his hands?”

 

The old steward came out with a key and released Lord Edmure, before fleeing inside.

 

“Who’s there?” Tully called out, shading his eyes. “Who are you? What’s happening?”

 

Jon closed the distance across the gavel. “When last you saw me, I was a newly made knight and you were not yet a lord.”

 

“What?”

 

Jon stood in place, giving Edmure a moment.

 

“The somber squire?”

 

“You do remember,” Jon replied, a smile creeping across his face.

 

Edmure looked more confused, now that he knew who stood in front of him atop Casterly Rock. “What in _seven-bloody-hells_ are you doing here?” He quieted for a moment. “They haven’t taken you too?”

 

Jon shook his head. “No, my lord. It’s me who’s doing _the taking._ I’ve taken my revenge, and I shall be taking you from here.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Come with me,” he said, holding onto Edmure’s arm. “Step carefully, my lord.”

 

Edmure gasped at the sight below. He began fall backward, but Jon held tight.

 

“I burned Lannisport, my lord. The Lannisters were warned that this would happen. They didn’t heed it, and thus I did as I pledged.”

 

“How? With what army?”

 

“No army. Now, my lord. . . I have someone to introduce. Do not be frightened.”

 

Jon pointed behind Edmure. Viserion didn’t get up from her place in the sun, she only lifted her head.

 

“What is that?!”

 

“Easy, my lord. Don’t be frightened, I said. That is Viserion, the dragon. She’s a daring companion and loyal friend.”

 

“Is that how we’re going to,” Edmure turned his head in Jon’s direction, but kept his eyes on the dragon. “Are we. . . _going to ride it?”_

 

“A bold offer,” Jon replied. His own laugh caught him by surprise.

 

“But no, my lord,” he told Edmure. “With our combined weight, she might have trouble to manage it. The Lannisters’ old steward is preparing a horse for you. A good deal less thrilling, I’ll admit, but safer for all.”

 

“I’ve been dreaming of a rescue for. . . How long has it been? But Jon, I never thought. . .”

 

“Your uncle rooted out the Freys from your castle,” he responded. “Be care going down the stairs, Lord Tully. I have no doubt about the thumping the Blackfish would bestow on me, should you come to harm now.”

 

Edmure Tully looked back at the door into Casterly Rock. The dread in his eyes was unmistakeable. He then shot a look at the white-scaled dragon laying in the sun.

 

Jon followed Tully’s blue eyes. “You wouldn’t rather. . ?”

 

His eyes still trained on the dragon, Edmure softly declared, “I shall never again set foot inside that bloody place. . .”

 

“Viserion,” Jon called to her. _Would you carry my knight to the base of this fortress, then return for me?_ He felt her reluctance to any outside subjugation. To Edmure aloud and to the dragon in thought, Ser Jon spoke to them both, “My lord, Viserion will agree to carry you down - provided you understand that it’s her who’s in charge whilst you’re upon her shoulders. Hold tight to the saddlehorn, and do not presume to turn her one way or another as you might a horse. Aye, my lord?”

 

Edmure nodded and Viserion began to walk over.

 

“Get him down safely,” Jon said, cheered by the thought of Edmure Tully riding a dragon - even briefly. “Her Grace needs Lord Tully in good health.”

 

Edmure gave him a quizzical look.

 

“Sansa Stark,” Jon clarified. “The maiden Queen of the North and the Trident, Lady of Winterfell, and your niece, my lord. Shall I help you up to the saddle, my lord? Riverrun awaits.”

 

“ _Riverrun awaits,_ ” Edmure whispered to himself. “Very well, Ser Jon. Another miraculous return for this Tully trout, thanks to a somber north-boy. Please Vis- _Viserion,_ get me the buggering hells out of here.”

 

Jon secured the stirrups, then stepped back. He could well guess at the grief that would likely catch up to him, once he thought more on the devastation he'd created. No matter what he might try to tell himself, Lannisport was a city of civilians not soldiers. His heart would likely twist for all the misery he brought to the smallfolk of the West. Most of whom, he knew, had no hand in the killing or kidnapping of any of his kin.

 

“Umm, Jon? I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

 

He looked up at Edmure balancing in Viserion’s saddle and in that moment Jon’s grief and self-doubt left him.

 

“Never you worry, my lord. Viserion will take good care of you. Just follow her wishes.”

 

“What does that-” Tully tried to say, but the dragon bounded to the edge and leapt into the air. Edmure screamed. Viserion delighted in it.

 

 _Put away your worries for another time,_ Jon thought. _I saved Lord Edmure from the Lannisters. Take heart in that for as long as you can._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was one of the most commented on for this entire story. Thanks for that, and I hope to hear your feedback for this one too.


	77. Arya - In the Rebuilt Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I wasn't going to post this chapter so soon after the last one, but it's ready so here it is!

With the back of her heel, Arya Stark pushed the door closed behind her. She stared at the girl she found in the bedchamber. “Who in the _seven fucks_ are you?”

 

Arya heard no reply.

 

She set down the basket of soiled bedsheets she’d brought with her. Touching only the clean corner, Arya folded over the shit-covered linens. They were too foul for the man-at-arms to inspect, down on the first floor of Mace Tyrell’s rebuilt Tower of the Hand.

 

She drew Needle from the bottom of basket. “I asked you a question. . .”

 

The young woman staring back was taller than Arya by a head. Her hair was long and dull brown.

 

Arya had changed out of her squire’s garments and donned those of a serving girl, including a winter hood to obscure her face. The sharpened steel in her hand was obviously at odds with the rest of her appearance.

 

“Is your skull filled with porridge?” challenged Stark. “I came here for someone. You’re not her. Where’s the other prisoner?”

 

The prisoner stood defiant and shook her head.

 

“Understand this, you soft-headed cunt: the Tyrell guards are many floors down - too far to hear you scream. So if you refuse to speak to me, I’ll kill you. If you answer. . . I might _still_ kill you. I don’t know yet. But that’s for later. For now,” she said, raising her blade. “This swordpoint will be going straight through your eyeball unless you tell me where Sansa Stark is being held. You have until the count of . . .  of two.”

 

The woman’s attention focused on Needle. Nothing in the world could elicit the reaction of a fine-point blade about to pierce one’s pupil.

 

“One. . .”

 

The prisoner flinched away, but Arya held onto her gown. The older girl protested, “Kill me if you have to, but I won’t help you. Her Grace is beyond your reach.”

 

 _“Her Grace?”_ Arya repeated back. “I’m not asking about Cersei, you fool. Listen to me. I’ve no desire to poke out your eyes. I have no fear of it, either.” She traced Needle down the older girl’s cheek, leaving a thin, pink trail but not drawing blood. “Do you understand how easy this cuts through skin? Give me your name, for a start, and tell me why you’re a prisoner here.”

 

“I suppose that won’t. . . It cannot hurt to say only that.”

 

“No it won’t,” she said, nodding.

 

“Jeyne Stark is my-”

 

“Horse shit!” cursed Arya. “There’s no such person. And if there was, _you_ wouldn’t be her. You’re no Stark.”

 

“Not by birth, no, but in marriage. . .”

 

Her breath caught. _“Marriage?”_

 

“I trust you’ve heard such arrangements exist?” the girl mocked, finding some courage.

 

“Don’t be sly.”

 

“You asked and I answered you. Please leave me in peace.”

 

“Who did you marry?” Arya demanded. “Where’s your husband?”

 

Anger and shame flashed across the imprisoned girl’s face. “You must be the only person in Westeros who’s not heard about his murder. My husband was Robb Stark. The realm called him the Young Wolf.”

 

Arya dropped her sword. “Robb? You married Robb? That was _you?”_

 

She didn’t answer.

 

“Seven hells!” Arya was unable to contain her shock. “You’re saying you’re _that girl?_ The one who steered him-”

 

“ _Careful._ . .” she challenged. “I’ll tolerate some disrespect to my own name - _the Father knows I deserve it_ \- but I’ll hear no word spoken against my husband, my king.”

 

The tattered bits of knowledge Arya had collected since Braavos began to fit together. “ _You’re_ the one Cersei paid a ransom for?” She watched Jeyne’s expression. “ _The Stark girl,_ that’s you. _The widowed queen,_ you’re her? Not Sansa?”

 

When she got no reply, Arya said again, “Seven hells! Fuck tender-footing around. I came here to get my sister away from this dung-pile of a city. But if it’s _you_ the queen kidnapped, not Sansa. . . I could save you, I guess.”

 

Dumbfounded, Jeyne echoed, _“Save me?”_

 

“Aye, my lady. We’re getting out of here, I just decided. I’m Arya Stark, by the way. Robb’s sister. I know a way out, a secret way.”  
  


“Robb’s sister?”

 

“Oh,” she remarked, before pushing back her head covering and revealing her face. “I know I don’t look much like my brother; he takes after Mother, and I favor Father. But I swear, I’m Arya Stark.”

 

She lowered her eyes. “You look like your other brother. You look like Jon.”

 

Arya stepped away. “How would you know him? How could you know Jon?”

 

“Don’t you know that he’s alive?”

 

“Alive. . ?”

 

“Robb thought he died on the Narrow Sea. He didn’t. Ser Jon’s with Queen Sansa.”

 

“Are you. . ?”

 

“I’m sure,” she insisted. “I last saw him in the Vale.”

 

_Jon’s alive. He’s alive. She saw him!_

 

Jeyne tried to explain what Arya had missed. Meanwhile, Arya began taking out the tools she’d brought for the rescue. She could hardly believe what Jeyne Westerling was telling her. _Jon has a dragon. Sansa married the Imp, but escaped from him. They went to White Harbor so they could take back Winterfell._ “Good.”

 

“What?” asked Jeyne.

 

“Good,” Arya repeated, trying not to sound embarrassed. “It’s _good_ Jon is going to kill Lord Leeches for all he did.”

 

“Aren’t you scared? For Jon? War is _dangerous._ Even more. . . with a dragon.”

 

_Jon will be fine. If I can see through cats and run with Nymeria in my wolf dreams, most like he can do things with his dragon._

 

“I bet no man dares look down his nose at Jon anymore,” she said eagerly. “I hope the dragon burns anyone who does.”

 

“Ser Jon wouldn’t do that,” Jeyne responded softly, but with certainty.

 

She argued back, “What would you know?”

 

“He was nice to me. . . nicer than most everyone else. Even from before Robb was. . .” The older girl blinked her eyes. “Well, Jon wouldn’t hurt someone over an insult. He’s too serious and too honorbound for that.”

 

“Maybe,” Arya mumbled. “But I’d still like it if he did.”

 

Lady Jeyne raised a separate concern, “Shouldn’t we. . . Do we have to hurry?”

 

Arya shook her head. “The guards aren’t close.” She smirked as she secured the rope to Jeyne’s bed frame. “The Tyrells’ soldiers are stretched to the hells and back. Their army’s in the Stormlands and their fleet’s sailing around Dorne. Besides, you’re not the same prize to the roses as you were to the bitch queen. Cersei wanted to hang you already. I heard so.”

 

“You mean Cersei was behind my kidnapping?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Of course. Everyone who knows anything is whispering it. You. . . didn’t know?”

 

“Nobody told me anything.”

 

“Hmm,” Arya murmured and her excitement began to grow. “I have an idea. We’re not escaping yet. Aye, you’re going to write Cersei a note. You’ll ask to share a meal with her.”

 

“With the queen?”

 

Arya Stark smiled.

 

“But if she wants to kill me. . .”

 

“We let her think she’s going to get the perfect chance. Ask to speak with her, ask for her help, just one lady of the West to another. We don’t even need much of a plan. Cersei will do most of the work for us.”

 

“How?”

 

“If she intends to get away with murdering you, she’ll have to find a reason to send any guards away. She will have to think of some way to make your death look. . . on accident or something like that. I expect she’ll use poison, or mayhaps strangle you and then say you were choking and she was trying to save you.”

 

“I don’t want to die for her.”

 

Arya made a face. “You think I’m going to make you? No, Jeyne. We are going to guess what Cersei’s about to do, then turn it on her. We invite her here, and I’ll hide somewhere. Then. . . we kill her.”

 

* * *

 

“See?” cheered Arya, tossing the empty glass before snatching it out of the air. “That’s all it takes to switch glasses right in front of a target’s eyes!”

 

Gaining admittance into Jeyne’s chambers while dressed as a maid had been easier for her this second time. Arya knew that Lord Swyft would be wroth over another morning-long disappearance. Still, she planned to return to his apartments as soon as she could; Arya wasn’t ready to surrender the access she had as _Syrio the squire._

 

“Please explain it again, just slower.”

 

“Fine,” Stark replied with a sigh. “Elbows on the table, first of all. Lay your left hand straight ahead and cross your right arm side-face, like you’re holding a shield.”

 

Jeyne confirmed, “One arm out. One arm across.”

 

“Next, hold your glass with your _shield arm,_ ” she said, placing the empty glass on the table. “Reach across the table with your reaching arm and say, umm, ‘Let me fix your collar.’ Something of the like, just don’t be stupid about it.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

“So you scoot up and out of your seat and reach out to touch my collar. . . see how your reaching arm is hiding your glass? Cersei won’t see it in your other hand.

 

“Then comes the hard part. With the under-hand, you place your glass next to mine. . . But don’t clang them!”

 

Jeyne nodded.

 

“Just slip your fingers around her glass, with your reaching arm still blocking her sight, and when you lean back into your chair. . . You’ll have her glass, you’ll leave her yours, and the bitch is none-the-wiser!”

 

“The queen will see that, Arya. There’s no way I can be so sly.”

 

“You’ll have to be,” she said back. “Else, we’ll both lose our heads.”

 

* * *

 

Arya rested her linen basket on her hip as she stood before the pair of Tyrell guards on the second landing of the Hand’s Tower. Both were old and asleep on their feet. She coughed to get their attention. They stirred and waved her by, without a moment’s thought. Their drowsiness was not unexpected, because the sun was just starting its rise over Blackwater Bay. Within the hour, that pair of night guards would be relieved for the day, which would leave no one to question why a laundry-maid was spending so long on the nearly deserted upper floors.

 

In Jeyne’s bedchamber, Arya tested her one final time on this morning’s deceit. She reminded Jeyne, “Keep my knife hidden in the folds of your gown, but poison is more likely with Cersei.” Hoping to gift the older girl some extra confidence, she said, “You would make for a fine assassin. You’re more steady than I was, before the first time I slayed someone.”

 

Jeyne Stark gave her an odd, little smile.

 

Arya curled into the linen basket and made certain she could see through the hand-hole. Jeyne pushed the basket under her bed, struggling to make it fit. Silent and motionless, Arya laid in wait.

 

Only when a door slammed closed did she realize she’d fallen asleep. Arya Stark peered through the hole and saw red fabric flutter past.

 

A woman’s voice said, “Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I can pour for the both of us.”

 

_Cersei Lannister._

 

A third person was in the room, sitting beside Jeyne at the square table. Arya held her breath and shifted ever. . . so. . . slightly. . .

 

_Who’s that? Is it. . . It’s Princess Myrcella._

 

Arya didn’t know how the girl’s presence would affect Cersei or Jeyne and bit her lip with worry.

 

A platter of food was already in the middle of the table, and Myrcella had some drink of her own.

 

Cersei asked, “Would you care for a dollop of honey stirred in your wine, my lady?”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jeyne replied.

 

The queen dowager mixed Jeyne's wine thoroughly and set the teaspoon aside. Myrcella asked if she might have some honeyed wine, but her mother rebuffed her. Cersei Lannister came over with one glass for herself and a second for Jeyne. She said, “I used to love the sweetness of a scoop of honey, but now I find it not to my liking, Jeyne. May I call you that?”

 

“Of course, my queen.”

 

“Sweetling, over this private meal you must use my name. I insist.” Then, Cersei raised her glass. “A toast between two queens.”

 

Jeyne tipped her wine glass. She raised it to her lips and tilted the stem, but did not open her mouth. As they’d practiced, Jeyne swallowed her spit and her throat bobbed. Cersei relaxed at the sight.

 

The queen took a drink of her own wine, then raised it again. “And a second toast. . . to our dear, departed kings.”

 

_That smug cunt!_

 

Jeyne stared in disbelief and horror. She looked ready either to slap the Lannister woman or crawl under the table and weep.

 

Attuned to the tension her mother was creating, Princess Myrcella cheerfully wondered, “Oh, you were a queen too, Lady Jeyne? Or, _Queen_ Jeyne.” She smiled and bowed her head. The golden-haired child lifted her own glass. “How about a toast between _three_ queens?” Her hand shook as she giggled.

 

When Jeyne didn’t say anything, Myrcella continued, “Princess Arianne - from Dorne - she gave me a crown. It was after I. . . got my scars.” She twisted her fingers into a lock of hair. “It wasn’t like a _queen's_ crown. Not really. Have you seen Queen Margaery’s crown, Lady Jeyne? Mine wasn’t like that. It was like a wreath. But with blood orange leaves. Copper and golden ones, my lady, not real leaves. The princess said even if I never got to be a queen, I was still a princess.

 

“It had to stay at Sunspear. The princess said maybe I can wear it when I marry my be-trothed,” said Myrcella, sounding out the last word. “I wish I had it here. It was beautiful. My lady, did you get to keep your crown?"

 

Jeyne finally gathered her wits. “No, princess. I did not.”

 

Cersei, however, looked as if she’d seen a ghost. Her coloring had gone pale. She whispered something, but Arya caught only the words, “gold shall”. The queen was still holding up her wine, toasting with no one.

 

“Mother?” asked the girl, with trepidation in her voice. “Are you cross at me? I don’t mind that Princess Arianne kept the gold wreath.” Myrcella became bashful. “It wasn’t like stealing. I wouldn’t let anyone steal from me.” She recited, “ _A lioness of the Rock_ does not allow that. Mother?”

 

The girl tried to comfort her by stretching out to clink her glass with her mother’s.

 

Cersei Lannister came back into herself all at once. Half sneering, she commanded, “Leave. Leave now!” She rose to her feet, looming over her daughter. “Go back to your chambers, you empty-headed child.”

 

Myrcella pleaded, “But I thought we were having. . .”

 

Shocked by the exchange, Arya was slow to notice Jeyne leaning out over the table.

 

_Did she switch the wine glasses?_

 

“Whatever you thought,” jabbed Lannister. “You were certainly wrong, you foolish child. Leave us.”

 

The princess argued, “But Mother! In Dorne-”

 

“Spare me this foolishness about what you were permitted in Dorne! It was _the wretched Imp_ who sent you there. That’s reason enough for you to never go back.” She turned her nose up at her daughter.

 

Myrcella flashed a scowl. With some newfound Dornish courage, she defied her mother. She reached across the table, took hold of Cersei’s glass, and swigged it down.

 

Arya’s heart lurched within her chest. _No! Not her!_

 

Jeyne stayed perfectly still.

 

The queen slapped Myrcella across the face, leaving a tiny cut from one of her rings. The princess didn’t wipe away the blood. She rose to her feet. “Very well, _Your Grace._ . .  I shall leave.”

 

The girl’s voice was still heavy with hurt as she turned and said, “Lady Jeyne, sorry for your husband. I met him one time. He was dashing. I know my heart would twist if anything happened to my Trystane. If anything. . . if I maybe might help, your loss. . .” A single tear escaped the corner of her eye. The droplet was caught by the crimson cut on her cheek. “Not every woman of my family is heartless.”

 

Jeyne bowed her head to Myrcella, and the golden princess left without another word.

 

Several seconds of silence passed between Jeyne Westerling and Cersei Lannister. Finally, the younger widow said, “I think we should hold off on sharing a meal. I’m. . . not up to this, Your Grace.”

 

Cersei replied, “Mayhaps you are right, my lady. Though I hope you aren’t put off my company. . . for all that my daughter humiliated me.”

 

“Certainly not.”

 

Arya didn’t utter a word, not even well after Cersei left. After several minutes, Jeyne slid the basket out from under the bed, then doubled over on the floor. Her hands were shaking. “What have I done? I’m a monster. . .”

 

“You’re not,” Arya assured. “If Cersei was half the mother. . .” She took hold of Jeyne’s arm. “Come on. We can’t stay here. Who knows how much faster the draught will work on her.”

  
“Poison,” insisted Jeyne. “Not draught, _poison._ We poisoned a young girl.”

 

“Her mother’s poison, not ours.”

 

“We have to warn her.”

 

Arya shook her head. “Myrcella will live or she will die. It’s up to the gods and her mother.” She added, “We’re not even certain there _was_ poison in the cup.”

 

Jeyne stared back. “Didn’t you see the queen’s reaction when she thought I drank of it? You’re certain. So am I.”

 

“Who will you tell? What’ll you say?”

 

Jeyne looked at the floor.

 

_Valar Morghulis, Princess Myrcella._

 

Brokering no more talk, she forced Jeyne to get moving. Arya Stark took a pillow off the bed. In place of feathers, she drew out the rope they’d hidden inside. With Jeyne’s aid, the girls pushed the bed frame over to the window. Arya tied one end of her rope to the bed and threw the rest of the coil out the window.

 

“I unlatched a window two floors straight down. I’m going first, but don’t worry about me. Just climb down to the second window and slip inside.”

 

Jeyne nodded.

 

Arya held tight to the rope and pressed her boots against the side of the tower. Her feet knocked off clumps of snow as she descended, leaving an unmistakable trail down the tower. She reached the window for their escape with ease. It was open by a crack, just as she’d left it. Arya looked up; Jeyne was edging out of the window. She prayed the girl wouldn’t lose her nerve, then scaled further down.

 

Arya continued lower and lower until she was within a jumping height. Then, she climbed up again.

 

Jeyne proved her courage and made it to the open window. Arya helped her inside.

 

“What now?” Jeyne asked, still jittery from the descent. “The r-rope?”

 

“Leave it,” Arya insisted.

 

“But the guards will-”

 

“They’ll see the snow I knocked off the tower when I climbed further down. On the ground, they’ll find the footprints I made last night.”

 

“You did?”

 

Arya nodded. “Footprints that lead from the back of the Hand’s new tower to the Red Keep’s bailey.” She puffed out her chest. “From there, _who knows where a girl might run._ ”

 

Jeyne was in awe.

 

Arya closed and locked the window. She crossed the room and put an ear to the door. When she’d played this out in her mind, the guards were after them without a second to spare. _They don’t know Jeyne’s missing. . . Do I still wait for them to follow the footprints?_

 

“Come on,” she whispered, trying to sound sure of her new plan.

 

They left the empty room and Arya led to the stairs. She had on servant’s garments, but feared that Lady Jeyne might be recognised.

 

_No one’s searching for her yet._

 

Her delicate good-sister looked so frightened that her expression alone might draw unwanted notice. To distract Jeyne, Arya locked arms and whispered, “This tower is all different from when I lived here, when my father was Hand to the drunk king. Cersei burned it down. But I checked, Mace Tyrell built atop the old cellars. He didn’t start anew. There’s a way out down there.”

 

Four flights of cold steps and they hadn't seen anyone. After one more floor, Arya stopped at an alcove. Her companion glanced over in terror, but she was only pausing to steal two winter cloaks from a pile on a bench. _Highgarden green._ With Jeyne better disguised, Arya hurried her down at a faster pace.

 

The chamber below ground was a dishevelled mess. The wine barrels and cheese wheels were strewn about.

 

“Wait.” Arya drew Needle and cut off a knob of cheese. She handed it to Jeyne, then picked up a spare broom.

 

“What’s that for?’

 

“For _seeing,_ ” she answered with a smirk.

 

Flat, stone steps led to the second basement. It had a familiar smell. Arya wondered if there might be anything left over from her father’s garrison. _Mayhaps a direwolf cloak. . ._

 

She discarded the notion as childish sentiment and tugged Jeyne along. At the end of the underground chamber, a ladder was carved into the bricks. “I chased a cat down there,” she said, standing over the way down. “Back when I was little.”

 

“We’re going _further_ down?” Jeyne wondered, horrified.

 

“I said I know a secret way. And, I’m good at getting through dark places. Trust me.”

 

* * *

 

When they again saw sunlight, both were shivering and covered in muck from the runoff. Arya expected complaints from the prissy lady. _Sansa would be whining._ Jeyne, however, did not say an ill word about it.

 

“Where,” posed Lady Jeyne, “. . . wh-where to now?”

 

Arya admitted she wasn’t sure. She began to walk without saying anything else. Jeyne followed. The younger of the pair looked around at the city streets, trying to set her bearings. Few people were out in the still, winter air.

 

After a long silence between them, Jeyne said, “Thank you, Lady Arya. Thanks for saving me, even if I’m not your sister.”

 

“I . . .” Arya Stark fought a sudden lump in her throat. “Thank you. . . for not bloody mucking it up.”

 

 


	78. Jon - On the River Road

Though Ser Jon had only demanded a single horse from the Lannister castellan at the top of Casterly Rock, the stablemaster didn’t balk when Jon asked for another at the foot of the fortress. The blonde-bearded man handed over the reins of his own mount and returned to the Rock on foot.

 

With two horses, Jon Whitewolf and Edmure Tully rode side-by-side on the River Road, leaving behind the cinders of Lannisport.

 

* * *

 

Viserion flew overhead as they progressed toward the Riverlands. Jon could feel that she comprehended his desire that she not burn and of the villages they passed. Though she yielded to his wishes, her adherence wasn’t nearly as strong as it’d been back at the surrender of Darry. Jon did not know where this change might lead.

 

“Your half-brother,” began Lord Edmure, deaf to Jon’s worry. “He saved me too, you know." Tully gestured further in the direction they were riding. "Near the Golden Tooth, the Lannisters defeated Clement Piper and Lord Vance at the pass between the western hills. Then, the Kingslayer marched to Riverrun where he outfought me and what men I’d gathered - too few by half,” he admitted with a humble shrug. “I was Jaime Lannister’s prisoner, though not for the last time, until the Young Wolf came to the rescue.”

 

Jon watched Edmure Tully’s face while listening to the man. His words would’ve sounded bitter and shameful if they’d sprung from anyone else’s lips. Edmure had an uncommon humility and brightness in the face of gloom.

 

“I recall telling King Robb it was the Tully in him showing through then. I should’ve known better,” he said with a touch of admiration. “It was _the Stark_ in him. Between the pair of you, Ser Jon, many nooses have gone wanting.”

 

At those words, Jon remembered why he liked his brother’s uncle so deeply. Edmure Tully’s spirit could kindle such warmth and he so freely distributed it to those around him.

 

Viserion gave a shriek overhead. Jon and Edmure looked first to the noon sky, then ahead on the road.

 

“Sarsfield,” announced Lord Tully.

 

Jon nodded.

 

“Should we approach?”

 

“Aye, my lord. Casterly Rock would have sent ravens ahead of us.”

 

“A goat trail is somewhere nearby,” Tully countered. “Robb’s army followed it around this castle, during the war. Mayhaps we could find it.”

 

Jon thought of Edmure’s fitness after his captivity. The Lannisters kept him in a bedchamber rather than a dungeon, but beyond that had treated him like most any prisoner. “Even if we knew where it was, you’re in no condition to go traipsing through the hills, my lord.”

 

The Riverman put a hand on his too-lean stomach, then looked up. “Jon, you’ve dragged me through worse terrain, in worse condition.”

 

He smiled at that. “Still. . . we should ask Lord Sarsfield for safe passage. What lord would hinder a dragon trying _to leave_ his lands?”

 

When they approached the castle, the Westerman was waiting for them beneath a green, arrow banner. Ser Jon called to the top of the battlements, “Before you rides Edmure Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, on his way to his rightful place at Riverrun.”

 

Under his breath, Edmure said, “It’s not _my name_ that’ll sway this archer-lord.”

 

Sarsfield hollered down, “I know whom he is.”

 

Tully cupped his hands around his mouth and questioned, “Will you, my lord, have calm or dragonfire?”

 

 _Even threatening to torch this lord,_ thought Jon, _Edmure still sounds half in jest._

 

To Lord Tully, Sarsfield quipped, “No matter how often the lions capture you, it never keeps.” To Jon, he called, “Will your demon-beast burn me and my kin if I keep my gates shut, but grant you permission to ride ‘round my walls?”

 

“That will do, my lord,” Jon hollered.

 

“On your way, then,” Lord Sarsfield finished.

 

* * *

 

Jon opened his eyes the next morning and found Edmure shaking him. “It’s dawn,” he heard. Ser Jon sat up and saw that wasn’t yet true. There remained an hour, at the least, before dawn. He didn’t argue though, as Edmure had kept watch through the night.

 

“You shall have to lead my horse, Jon. I’ll be fast asleep no sooner than I can get in the saddle.”

 

Jon untied the horses and let them drink from the brook Viserion had spotted for them the evening prior. Though the dragon had opened her eyes, she didn’t stir from the leafless elm she’d slept against. All around her, the dusting of snow on the ground had melted.

 

“Awake, Viserion,” he called, kneeling beside the brook. “Let the horses pick at the weeds beneath you.”

 

Jon splashed his face with the frigid water, closing his eyes for just a moment.

 

_What was. . ._

 

A sudden glimpse of his dream from last night returned to him. He focused and tried to remember more of it.

 

_Trouble. Someone was in dire trouble._

 

Jon recalled being enveloped in severe cold. He couldn’t recollect where he’d been in his dream, but there was no sky. He remembered trying to stand up wherever he was then. Something prevented him, as if he were bound to the floor. Silent attendants, which seemed small and fearful in the dream, shuffled about in the darkness. They weren’t pleased by his presence in that place, any more than Jon had been to be there. . . in the dream.

 

Viserion let out a cry of worry. In her golden eyes, Jon saw that she shared his distress.

 

 _I wasn’t myself in the dream,_ he thought. Jon struggled to envision more, but could not. The memory began to slip from his mind.

 

In good spirits, Edmure hollered, “I saddled your horse, oh former squire. Climb up.”

 

 _Climb?_ The word shook free a memory, and another word emerged for Jon: _Brother._

 

He remembered looking up from the ground in the dream, once he realized he couldn’t stand. A figure lorded over him. In the darkness of that place and in the blur of his sleeping mind, Jon hadn’t been able to see a distinct face. He saw only. . . _One eye peering in the dark._

 

“A single eye,” Jon whispered. “Fixed on. . . my brother.”

 

The dragon howled with agreement and alarm. Jon stared at her. _You saw it too, Viserion. That was no idle dream._

 

Edmure slept as they rode and Jon held his reins. Viserion kept to the ground that morning, which was starkly out of character. Ser Jon struggled to keep the horses calm with the dragon walking beside them.

 

The party made fresh tracks on the vacant road to the Golden Tooth, the border between the West and the Riverlands. They kept a brisk pace on the hard dirt. Meanwhile, Jon tried and failed to visualize the dream again. It was lost to him. _Viserion,_ he thought, _you don’t remember any more than I._ Through her, however, Jon fell a pull urging them north.

 

“What does it mean?” he asked aloud.

 

The word _brother_ came to mind once again. “You and I,” he said to the dragon. “We weren’t Rickon in the dream.” He next imagined Robb’s face and feared what dreaming of seeing through his eyes could mean.

 

_No, not Robb. Could this be a vision of. . . of Bran?_

 

The dragon quirked her neck back, appearing to struggle against a twinge she couldn’t stretch loose. Jon clenched his teeth and fought an irksome discomfort of his own. He did not understand what the feeling meant. _Was it Bran’s eyes I saw through?_ The glimpse during the night didn’t match the little brother he loved and missed.

 

Viserion flexed her claws in irritation, cutting into the frozen ground.

 

“I feel it too, dragon. An impulse to go north. Travelling eastward feels all wrong, I know. We’ll see Edmure only as far as Wayfarer's Rest. Once he’s safe, I’ll fly with you wherever this instinct beckons.”

 

After a full day of leading the sleeping lord, Jon and Edmure rode together the following day, and Viserion again took to the sky.

 

“Thirty leagues, was it, that stands between Sarsfield and the Riverlands?” Jon asked.

 

Tully responded, “Thereabouts.”

 

“With yesterday’s ride, that makes for two days ahead of us.”

 

As the pair continued at a reliable pace into afternoon hours, each cradled a pile of dead birds in his lap.

 

“In all the tales of Aegon’s dragons,” huffed Edmure. “Ne’er once was it written that Visenya and Rhaenys plucked and gutted finches for Vhaegar or that other dragon.”

 

“ _Meraxes_ was the other one,” Jon replied with a smile. “Viserion got used to having her meat cleaned and dressed. Besides, don't tell me you're not hungry.”

 

The she-dragon had twice descended from the air to leave clutches of dead fowl for Jon to dismount and pick up. “What’s more,” he told Edmure. “I wasn’t about to let you amble along without lending a hand.”

 

“At least you lent me your dagger to shave _before_ you started using it on bird entrails.”

 

“By luck alone, I assure you!”

 

Edmure made an exaggerated groan at that. His red-brown beard had been crusty and lice-infested upon his release from Casterly Rock. Jon had never seen him clean shaven before. To look at him now, Jon saw Robb in Edmure’s face and Catelyn Stark in her brother’s eyes. Ser Jon felt like he should talk about them, but at that moment couldn’t think of anything to ask about.

 

As if able to hear the disquiet in Jon’s thoughts, the Lord of Riverrun asked cheerfully, “Any word of my lady wife? She would have given birth by now. Any word of the babe?” He glanced up from the feathers he was plucking. “I confess I’m beyond eager to meet my boy - or my daughter.”

 

Before Jon began to speak, Edmure saw something in his eyes. “What happened?” he asked. “What is it? Did the babe. . ?”

 

“My lord. . .” The younger man took a deep breath, stalling for a moment. “The mother and daughter were in good health, I learned from Lord Royce at Darry by way of Ser Brynden in Riverrun.”

 

“A relief!” he exclaimed, grinning. Jon shook his head, and Edmure’s expression soured.

 

“You are not the babe’s father, my lord. My sympathies, but. . . she was already with child when you wed her.”

 

All the breath within Edmure seemed to escape him. “Oh. . .” He hunched over in the saddle, as if hit in his chest. Without looking up, he offered, “I thought such things only happened at the end of _Pate the Pigboy_ stories.”

 

“My lord. . .” began Jon. “ _Edmure,_ I am so sorry.”

 

Tully asked for specifics regarding the birth. Jon tried to convince him that such information could wait, but he insisted. Edmure then listened to Jon recount what the Blackfish had relayed about Roslin Frey. He kept his head down, hiding his face from Jon.

 

Once he heard the entirety of what Jon knew, Edmure said, “The marriage could not stand - _shouldn’t._ Who would a child sired on a night like that grow to be? Better, all told, that the babe isn’t. . .”

 

Edmure’s shoulders began to quake.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jon repeated.

 

“Walder Frey played me for a fool. . . many times over. Him, the Kingslayer, Lord Tywin, everyone. Brynden and Cat thought me a fool. More the fool am I that I ever doubted as much.”

 

“My lord,” uttered Jon.

 

“How stupid was I to _ever_ care for. . . It makes no matter now,” he added briskly. “ _Lord Hoster’s fool of an heir,_ men will say. Not for the first, of course. Though now, I’ll stand at the address and reply, ‘Yes. That is me. The one and only. My father’s fool, I am.’ Trying to be aught else, well, just exposes me further. Better to admit who I am.”

 

He made an uncharacteristic, bitter sort of laugh. To himself, he said. “The Kingslayer must have been laughing all the while that he. . . _With a trebuchet,_ indeed.” Edmure looked at Jon. “Jaime threatened that he would kill the infant after Roslin gave birth.” He laughed grimly. “Another jape at my expense, you see. My castle for another man’s whelp. Oh how the Freys must’ve laughed!”

 

Jon Whitewolf had no words for his mentor, and it pained him dearly.

 

* * *

 

Lady Alysanne Lefford rode out from the Golden Tooth to meet Jon and Edmure. Above her flew the golden hill on a blue backdrop of her House’s banner. Behind her rode the full strength of her lands.

 

“My lady,” offered Jon. “Might we pass?”

 

She ignored him. “What greeting did you expect from me, my lord?” Lady Alysanne was four-and-twenty years of age. Astride her horse, she was hefty about her hips and stomach. Edmure didn’t recognize her.

 

“Do you have any notion why it’s me who greets you and not my lord father?” Her face curled into a bitter look, when Edmure had no answer. “Because you killed him, you witless moron. At the crossing near Stone Mill. You and your riverlords ran him back into the Red Fork, where he drowned. All the better, though. _Your_ victory turned Lord Tywin from the Riverlands just in time for _his_ victory at King’s Landing.”

 

“The fords,” Lord Edmure muttered to himself. He’d been in a state ever since learning of Roslin’s bastard.

 

Jon didn’t wait for him to say anything more. “My lady, was there any dishonor in that battle?”

 

She pointed at Tully. “He killed my father!”

 

“It was battle,” Edmure responded.

 

Lady Lefford called to her knights, “Draw swords!”

 

“ _Stone Mill,_ you said?” Jon asked quickly, before the meeting turned to bloodshed. He reached his thoughts for Viserion. He was relieved to sense she was in flight close by, but didn’t call for her to descend. _If I can avoid more death. . ._

 

Alysanne paused. Her hand remained in the air, signalling for the swords, but she didn’t swing it forward for them to charge.

 

His mind running, Jon said, “Tywin Lannister’s main thrust was at Stone Mill. The Mountain lead it.”

 

“So?”

 

“ _So,_ Lord Lefford died fighting behind as vile a man as ever lived. A raper, torturer, killer of children.” He gestured towards her armed knights. “Where is the honor in retaliation for a battle against a monster in human skin?”

 

“My father’s honor shown in his duty, _boy._ The Golden Tooth was then, as it remains, sworn to Casterly Rock.”

 

With sincerity, Ser Jon asked her, “What of all his liege lord did? All Tywin committed during his heinous life: the Sack of King’s Landing, murder of Elia Martell and her children, aiding in the Betrayal at the Twins, and rewarding Frey and Bolton for their unforgivable acts.”

 

She replied, “Lay your woes at _their_ feet. Neither I nor my father took part in the Red Wedding.”

 

“I already have. Walder Frey and Roose Bolton died at my hand, my lady.”

 

She relaxed her arm.

 

“I have no quarrel with you, Lady Lefford. But my duty is to see Lord Tully into the Riverlands. Please let us pass. Please lead your men back to your castle.”

 

“Else you shall burn us alive?” she questioned with a sneer. “Is that the way of it, Ser Jon the Whitewolf? Yes, I received a raven from the Rock. I know what you did.”

 

He wondered, “Then why this confrontation?”

 

Her voice was steel. “Better to kill you on horseback, than to burn once you mount a dragon.”

 

“Remember your own desire for vengeance and think of that same wroth, my lady, but inside the heart of a dragon.” Viserion passed overhead, appearing as a dark shadow against the grey sky.

 

Lady Lefford commanded, “Stand down, men.” She turned her courser in place. Before riding back to the Golden Tooth, Alysanne looked over her shoulder at Jon. “All you said of evil deeds. . . be certain to repeat that speech for your own kin, before someone cuts your throat for _your_ vile, heinous acts.” She put her heels to her horse, assuring that she retained the final word.

 

* * *

 

Edmure Tully’s unannounced arrival at Wayfarer’s Rest delighted all present. Karyl Vance, previously a knight and friend of Edmure’s, had inherited his father’s lordship. He threw open the castle gates for his liege lord.

 

Edmure seemed in better spirits the moment his garron crossed the drawbridge. Jon hoped Tully’s disposition would remain so. Though both of the travelers begged for quiet and the chance to sleep, Lord Karyl insisted upon a hasty feast.

 

Wayfarer’s Rest was a castle erected by the First Men and conquered by Andal knights. It was shaped like an archway over the road. The ancient shepherds’ path through the castle later became part of the River Road. Arrow slits and murder holes lined the inner arc. The uncommon structure allowed the Vances to slay any travelers through their lands who displeased them and never break guestright.

 

Jon struggled to keep his head up at Lord Vance’s table. _Would that this feast was delayed until tomorrow’s breakfast._ Meanwhile, Edmure caught Vance up on the destruction of Lannisport and his rescue.

 

“Ser J-Jon?” begged Lord Karyl’s second daughter, a girl of one-and-ten. “I saw your dragon come down from the sky. What’s wrong with it?”

 

 _“Rhialta!”_ chastised her elder sister.

 

Jon assured them that he took no insult at the question. “My lady, Viserion was scratching at the ground and snapping at the air because she is frustrated. She wishes that we were off already. She is correct.” He lifted his hand toward Lord Vance. “We must take flight at dawn.” He added, “Dawn at the very latest.”

 

_Brother._

 

Rhialta Vance glanced from Jon to her father. “Did you tell him? The ser and lord?”

 

Karyl knew what she meant and said, “Not yet, my talkative sweetling. Lord Edmure, Ser Jon,” he beckoned. “The Blackfish is nearby.”

 

“Brynden?” Jon and Edmure exclaimed together.

 

“The Kingslayer lingered in a Riverlands encampment for months with all his men. Odd as a horned dog, I tell you. Then not long ago, the lions imposed themselves on my bannerman’s hospitality. The only raven I received from Lord Smallwood said he was _happily hosting King Tommen’s knights._ ” Vance scoffed. “Your uncle descended upon the castle about a moon ago, encircling it but not storming the walls. Only some days ago, men of the Vale arrived and joined the siege.”

 

“Bronze Yohn,” Jon remarked. “He must not know of Lord Melcolm’s treachery.”

 

Tully responded, “Ravens don’t fly to an army on the march.”

 

“True enough. He must needs hear of it. However,” Jon looked to Edmure. “I must ask you to tell him the tale. Viserion and I have an urgent undertaking we cannot delay.”

 

He excused himself from the table and followed the steward to an available bedchamber. Jon wasted no time sliding beneath the furs.

 

Alone in the darkness, he thought, _I know you are in distress, brother. Something very wrong and troubling about is happening to you. Viserion and I both sense it. Bran, if I am right about you, we fly to your aid._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fanfiction forum [Dark Lord Potter](http://forums.darklordpotter.net/showthread.php?t=26694&goto=newpost) has been priceless for giving me help with my rough drafts. If any of you following this story would be willing join in the process, please click that link. (You just need to register an email address.)
> 
> Comments and reactions here on AO3, of course, are also super appreciated. The next Jon chapter will be up soon. Think of this one as Part 1 of a double chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	79. Jon - In Flight

From Wayfarer’s Rest, dragon and rider had flown northwest. Now, Viserion gathered her strength on an uninhabited cliff overlooking Ironman’s Bay. By Jon’s reckoning, they were somewhere east of the Crag and the Banefort.

 

Once the she-dragon was well rested, they leapt off the cliff. Viserion spread her wings and gathered speed. Spray from the waves crashing below filled the air. Jon readied himself for a day in flight. He expected they would only descend when the crossed into the North at the Flint Cliffs. The dragon decided otherwise. After scarcely two hours against a headwind, Viserion roared at the rocky isles jutting up from the sea and Jon realized their true destination.

 

_The Iron Islands._

 

He ached to discover why he was being drawn here, but feared it in equal measure. Sharing the dragon’s golden eyes, they scanned the ground for man or beast below. Somehow, Jon knew that this first island was unimportant.

 

The adjacent one was within sight from their vantage in the sky. Before they reached it, Viserion and he sensed that this wasn’t the mass of rock calling to them either. The dragon flexed her wings and flew onward to the north.

 

The third island was crescent-shaped and larger than the previous two. A fishing town sat on the tip of the easterly peninsula. The salty wind pushed them to follow the curve of the coastline. Jon relaxed, expecting to drift with the current of air. Viserion urged him elsewhere. They cut through a gust and flew past this island too.

 

With the curved isle still on the horizon behind them, they saw a new land mass. It looked much like the others. Jon, though, could feel that this one was different.

 

_This is where we’ve been flying all along._

 

Viserion circled in the sky, inspecting the mount of black stone. This isle was smaller and steeper than the others.

 

Something stirred in response. Jon felt it. Viserion did too. The dragon produced a thundering and throaty shriek. For a mile in all directions, gulls took flight to flee the sound.

 

Another creature fought below. Jon couldn’t see it, but somehow knew it was there and struggling. Half released and half escaping, a grey-green mass burst from a low tower.

 

 _Something is wrong._ Viserion knew it half a second before Jon did. Cold beyond cold, they felt rushing up at them. As dragonsfire compares to a candle’s flame was this cold to the touch of bare skin against ice.

 

Frostbitten on her underbelly, the she-dragon instinctively wrapped her wings around her body. They fell from the sky.

 

Only at the last moment did Jon and Viserion try to break their fall. They were too late to impede their momentum. They crashed into a stone tower. The mortared rock gave way, but so did Viserion’s leg. Pain shot up their right, rear limb. _It’s the bone,_ Jon knew at once.

 

The tower roof collapsed under the force of the collision, but the floor of the top level held. Viserion blew a torrent of fire against the wall in the half-collapsed tower room. She exposed her chest to the flames, warming herself. Shielded by Viserion, Jon felt the deflected heat and sighed with relief.

 

 _We can’t wait here._  

 

Jon clutched the saddlehorn, and Viserion pushed them out of the crashed-in chamber with her good leg. She spread her wings, but paused before taking flight.

 

The grey-green beast had flown past them and was now wildly spraying its icy breath in all directions.

 

 _A dragon,_ Jon and Viserion realized together. A thought from her entered Jon’s mind. He couldn’t make sense of it. _Where’s Bran? Where do you see him?_

 

The answer was obvious a moment later. “Not _my_ brother. _Yours._ ”  _We were never seeking out Bran. It was your brother bound to floor with the one-eyed oddity looming over him._

 

The other dragon angled its head. It caught sight of Viserion. With his first good look at the creature, Jon saw that the scales of its underbelly looked decaying and purple. Its eyes were sharp, though, and burned crystalline blue.

 

The other dragon flapped its wings to gain height. _It’s turning around,_ Jon thought. Viserion watched, as well, and struggled within herself. Fleeing from a threat went against the she-dragon’s every instinct.

 

Jon saw a vision of a green hatchling, the gentler of two brothers.

 

_If that was once your brother, he isn’t now. It will kill us._

 

“Attack or run, I stand with you, dragon.”

 

She dove off the collapsed tower, staying only inches from the side. Making an escape, Viserion gathered all the speed she could. Jon leaned forward in the stirrups, willing them faster. Together at the last moment, he yanked back against the saddle and Viserion curled her wings against the air. Her tail slapped the ground, but they kept their momentum and thrust onward into the air.

 

Jon looked over his shoulder. A blast of cold vapor hit the base of the tower, narrowly missing them. Viserion arched her tail and twisted her wings. Jon put his weight into their turn. They angled so sharply he could see the ground. He then looked ahead.

 

_There!_

 

Viserion spread her wings wide and flat for a moment, then tucked them tight against her sides. They shot between two keeps.

 

Jon turned Viserion’s head and ignited a wash of fire against the thinner keep. The wall began to cave in. The creature burst through the crumbling stones and didn’t seem to feel pain at the impact.

 

_Faster._

 

The grey-green monster tried again to catch them in its frozen breath. Jon kept going, even as the frost bit into Viserion’s tail. He looked back to see the ice dragon flex its wings, anticipating a flight out over the sea.

 

Jon instead turned back toward the series of keeps and towers. The pursuing dragon tried to gain ground, but it wasn’t nearly the deft flier Viserion and Jon were together. With two sets of eyes, they saw every corner in their path and wove between the blackstone fortifications.

 

The stalking dragon scraped against a tower on its first dodge and lost all momentum.

 

 _We’re out of its sight,_ Jon thought for a moment.

 

Once through the collection of structures, Viserion kept tight to the cliff and then just above the breakers out to sea. Before the greyish beast could pinpoint them, they put half a mile to their backs. Jon looked back to the island. _It lost us in the fog,_ he told his dragon.

 

Disoriented, they made a wayward circle over the bay before Jon got his bearings and pointed them eastward.

 

When they reached the shore, Viserion and Jon descended below the cover of a forest. Bare branches and pine needles whipped at his face. They landed hard on packed snow. Out of breath and in pain, the dragon shrieked her frustration. He threw himself out of the saddle.

 

Laying on his back, Jon said, “I don’t know what woods this is. I’m worried. . . worried over your leg. It felt broken.”

 

Knowing they could go no further without rest, he encouraged Viserion to lay flat. Though less than certain of how to tend a dragon’s injury, he packed snow around her broken leg. Jon had to collect new snow every few minutes, but it served to numb her pain. Exhausted and bewildered, the dragon closed her eyes.

 

Jon kept watch for three hours, until he was satisfied that they weren’t followed. Then, he fell asleep clutching his sword.

 

* * *

 

At dawn, Viserion awoke. She had slept soundly through the night, but now the pain reared up.

 

Getting to his feet, Jon assured her, “Let me look around. See if there’s any village or people or food nearby. I’ll return soon.”

 

He set out with nowhere in mind, walking in the direction of the rising dawn. Streams of light cut through the gaps in the pine canopy. The snowy forest would have been beautiful in better times. With each step, his boots sunk shin deep. The snowcover was damp, heavy, and clung to his legs.

 

No more than a league through the forest, he heard barking.

 

_Shaggydog?_

 

Jon knew that was madness the moment he thought it.

 

He drew the sword on his hip. As quietly as he could, Jon approached the barks. Glancing between the trees, he saw a campsite of sorts. In it, there was only one person with about a dozen dogs. He began to practice in his mind how he might ask for help.

 

A voice called out, “Jon Snow?”

 

Hearing his name shocked him. He didn’t recognize the voice. Pointing his longsword, Jon stepped out from among the trees.

 

A short man was getting to his feet. He stood no taller than Jon’s chin. He wasn’t elderly or stoop-backed, merely small. “I’ve been waiting for near-on a moon’s turn for you,” the stranger stated. He shrugged his shoulders with a peculiar, easygoing air. “Didn’t know when you’d arrive.”

 

“What? Who are you?”

 

“A friend,” the man replied. “Sit and I’ll explain while I tend to your leg.”

 

“My leg?”

 

“Yes. I’ve a splint and a crutch all prepared for you.”

 

“My legs are fine,” Jon said, bewildered.

 

“No,” the stranger countered. “The green dream was clear on that much. At least let me have a look. I’ve got food and warm drink.”

 

“My leg is fine,” he insisted again. “See? It’s fine. I walked here without trouble. I walked. . . _An injured leg,_ you say? You saw an injured leg _in a dream?”_

 

This seemingly predestined meeting unnerved Jon. However, he reminded himself, _Viserion is in a desperate state. Where else can I hope to find help?_ Taking a long look at the man, Ser Jon determined that he could dispatch this stranger with ease, if the situation came to arms.

 

“If you’re willing to help me,” he said and put his sword back in its scabbard, “there is someone whose leg needs tending. It’s only. . . well, she’ll need a good deal larger splint.”

 

* * *

 

Though the man wasn’t familiar to Jon, his name certainly was. _Howland Reed, the crannog lord who saved Father during the rebellion. One of the brave friends who rode off with him to find Aunt Lyanna._

 

Leading Lord Reed and his team of sled dogs, Jon retraced his tracks in the snow. “My lord,” he began, but couldn’t find his next words. Jon was unsure of how to prepare Reed to meet Viserion. “Well, my companion isn’t some woman, my lord. She is. . . now please believe me, she’s a dragon.”

 

Rather than fear or confusion, Howland Reed’s reaction was, “Ah, that makes sense.”

 

“It does?”

 

“Yes, my young friend. A dragon in the snow, its leg shattered, fallen where the marsh-woods meet the sea.” He was a strange sort of man, and nothing like any lord Jon had met before. He seemed to know just what to do.

 

“Jon, how big is this dragon? Will it fit between the trees? Or on my dogsled?”

 

“Between the trees, yes. But, not on your sled.”

 

Reed nodded thoughtfully. As they trudged through the snowy wood, the man stopped at one tree and pointed at its low-sitting branches. He instructed, “Cut down any pine branches we pass which are both no thicker than your gloved thumb and also as long as you are tall. Green and bendy ones, my son.”

 

Jon let the odd address pass unmentioned and followed the instructions.

 

After a league of walking, Jon Whitewolf said, “Please keep your distance, Lord Reed. Viserion has a good temperament most days, but she’s in great pain now.”

 

“Her leg,” he replied with several nods. “Indulge me a question, how close are you to it - _to her,_ I mean.”

 

Jon didn’t like the question from this man he’d only just met. He gave no answer.

 

Mistaking displeasure with confusion, Reed clarified, “Do you see her in only your dreams, or in waking hours as well?”

 

Jon thought of his wife then. He was reminded of how much she knew of wargs and skinchangers, even without the ability herself. Nevertheless, he wasn’t willing to divulge those secrets with a stranger, not even one who once knew his lord father.

 

“Viserion won’t hurt you,” he stated instead. “My lord, that is all you need to know. You have my word.”

 

Howland Reed approached the dragon very slowly. It seemed to Jon he was acting more out of respect than fright. “May I?” Reed asked, looking the dragon in the eye. The short man then touched her wing. She tucked it away, withdrawing from his touch but revealing the injured leg.

 

It was badly twisted and seeing it troubled Jon. A dragon’s ankle, like a wolf’s, was high on the hind leg. The joint’s placement was similar to a man’s knee. In flight, Viserion’s legs naturally hugged close to the base of her tail. But lying in the snowmelt, the mangled joint bent her leg the wrong way. The scales around the injury stood out, having darkened into yellow-brown.

 

Pointing at the leg from a pace away, Reed offered, “With hope, the leg popped out of the joint rather than the bones of joint cracking.”

 

“Would you know anything about tending her leg?” Jon asked, worried. “If you try to help. . .” He cringed thinking of Viserion’s pain. “We cannot do anything that would make the injury worse. How could you know the first thing about. . ?”

 

“About a dragon’s bones,” Reed suggested with a sympathetic face. “In the Neck, we eat lizard-lions on occasion. I can think of no better creature to compare your dragon to.”

 

They spent the following hour preparing to move Viserion. Howland wove Jon’s pine branches into a mat to drag behind the sleigh. He gave Jon the supplies to bind the dragon’s leg for the journey. The crannogman took up the lead, holding onto the harness of his lead dog. Jon coaxed his dragon to crawl onto the makeshift wayn, then trudged along beside her.

 

The party made its way through the forest, pulling Viserion over the snow. After six hours, they’d gone about ten miles and came to the edge of a swamp. Dusk had fallen, but Howland tested the surface confidently. The ice disappointed him. “No more than a few inches solid,” he said.

 

Jon knew he meant, _I cannot carry the dragon any further._ “For how long will you need to travel?”

 

Reed answered, “Two days to, two days back.” He glanced at Viserion and sighed. “I didn’t bring enough supplies for all parties.”

 

Jon looked at the dragon too, then back at the crannogman. “Save the food for your sled dogs. I’ll stay with Viserion.”

 

This troubled Howland Reed. “You can come with me,” he suggested.

 

“No, I cannot,” Jon said flatly. “We shall make do.”

 

Reed left with all haste, and Jon settled in beside Viserion.

 

Viserion’s innate warmth made freezing to death of little risk, even with she and Jon quenching their thirst with snow. He worried most over the leg she wounded crashing into the tower on Old Wyk. He closed his eyes and drifted into her mind. Trying to bear some of the pain for her, he stayed awake through the night. The dragon drifted in and out of sleep. Jon hoped the halting slumber would be enough to help her.

 

In the morning, he told Viserion, “To heal, you’ll need to eat.”

 

He looked about their surroundings. The only movement was from a lone bird fluttering between branches. _Would that I had a bow._ Jon looked at Viserion and longed for the fowl she had caught for him and Lord Edmure.

 

His eyes then fell on the swamp’s edge.

 

Jon thought of his father and knew what to do. He fashioned a branch into a club, then walked to where the swamp met the land.

 

He recalled a lesson from years ago. “Winter is coming, Jon,” his father had said. “If someday you are caught starving in winter, one unusual place to find food is a frozen pond. Winter comes to beast and man alike. Frogs in the North bury themselves in the frozen mud at the fringe of the pond. They can endure the deepest chill slumbering half frozen and awake in spring.” Jon remembered Ned smiling then. “My son, would that winter were so easy for you and me.”

 

Jon used his club to beat against the ice and hardened mud. He progressed along throughout the day. He found six dormant turtles and no frogs, concluding that they must be hiding elsewhere in the swamp. He returned to Viserion with his catch. She roasted them with her breath and cracked them with her teeth, leaving one for Jon and taking five for herself.

 

* * *

 

Ser Jon Whitewolf was sleeping in a seated position against Viserion’s side when Howland Reed arrived with a score of men in little boats, towing a floating dock. Lord Howland was in the lead position and used a pole-hammer with a head of carved stone to break up the ice. He spied Viserion gnawing on a turtle shell and quipped to Jon, “Are you certain the dragon is not crannog-born?”

 

The men accompanying him laughed at that.

 

Viserion turned her head and stared at Howland.

 

“She doesn’t trust me yet,” he said, stepping out of his boat.

 

“An old knight used to tell me, ‘A little distrust is wise.’ ” He then asked Howland, “Where do you plan to take us, my lord?”

 

“Greywater Watch. My home.”

 

Once they helped the dragon onto the raft made from a section of floating dock, Jon, Howland, and his crannogmen used poles to push along the swamp bed, pulling Viserion behind them.

 

* * *

 

“Tell your dragon it won’t be long now,” Reed said. “Not long now. Does it understand the words of men, or only yours, Jon Snow?”

 

He wasn’t willing to reveal anything about his bond with the dragon and instead responded, “No one calls me that any more. _Jon Whitewolf_ or _Ser Jon_ would be better, my lord.”

 

Howland smiled. “When last I saw you, you were far too young to recognize any name, Ser Jon Whitewolf. You were just a babe in Ned’s arms.”

 

This man’s familiarity was unwelcome. “I am beyond grateful for your aid, do not mistake that. But knowing an infant provides no insight to the man seven-and-ten years later.” Jon kept his eyes to the water and held back from engaging in further chatter.

 

_Viserion, it won’t be much longer. Food and proper care aren’t far off._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started out just like some of you predicted. So cheers to everyone who picked up on that. Still, I hope there were _some_ surprises for you!
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> _*GRRM owns all the ASOIAF stories and characters. This story was written for the enjoyment of writing it, not for any profit._


	80. Jon - Greywater Watch

The crannogman, in their little boats, pulled Viserion’s raft through the path broken into the layer of ice. Behind the raft, Jon used a pole to push along the swamp bed and kept watch over the injured dragon.

 

Jon could see confusion in her golden eyes, but also trust. _I’ll get you safely through this, dragon. If you need to sleep, Viserion, go ahead._

 

“Am I anything like you expected?”

 

Ser Jon looked up. Howland Reed had drifted back.

 

He failed to understand Reed’s question and shook his head.

 

“Didn’t Ned. . .” began Lord Howland. “Didn’t he say anything about his _most clever_ friend?”

 

Jon replied, “I know that you saved his life in the battle with the Kingsguard knights.”

 

“But nothing from before then,” Howland surmised. “He was never outspoken, but I’m surprised he kept silent on this.”

 

“My lord father wasn’t silent with his children.”

 

“Jon,” the crannogman uttered, lowering his voice. He glanced around to make sure none of his men was within earshot. “What do you know of your birth?”

 

“I rode to the Wall and my uncle told me about it.”

 

“Benjen?” asked Lord Howland and Jon nodded. “You know him as a man of the Night’s Watch, as a ranger. I knew him as just Ben Stark, the little boy. Jon, your uncle never left Winterfell during the rebellion. There were events that he likely did not tell you, because he simply wasn’t there to see them. I was. Most like, I can tell you more than Ben could.”

 

Ser Jon didn’t like how eager this stranger was to speak of his deepest secrets. _What business of his is my past?_ He didn’t ask any questions.

 

Reed persisted, “Isn’t there anything you wish to know? About your past? About your mother?”

 

“Lord Commander Benjen Stark told me all I need to hear, Lord Reed.”

 

The crannogman saw the expression on Jon’s face. “If you’ve heard all you care to, my son, I shall leave off mentioning the matter again.”

 

“Thank you, my lord.”

 

* * *

 

Jon heard the crannogmen hooting up ahead. He poled out from behind Viserion’s raft. At first look, he saw nothing remarkable. The Neck was filled with clusters of vine-wrapped groves. The grouping ahead looked like all the others.

 

Two trees separated by only a yard began to move. They were thirty feet tall, dead, and grey. Layers of evergreen vines grew up the trunks, mingling between the dead branches. The vines made the pair of trees look green and hale.

 

Halfway between upright and fallen, Jon understood. _It’s a disguised drawbridge._ Ropes secured to the two trees slacked and the ramp fell. Planks crossed between the trunks on the hidden, inner side. Six men came out from Howland Reed’s hidden castle. They carried a raft down the drawbridge and dropped it into the swamp. Howland and the others tied their boats to it. Jon followed their lead with Viserion’s raft and his own skinboat. After a moment of apprehension over leaving Viserion on her own, he was the last to climb onto the ramp.

 

When Jon caught up to Reed and the others, he found himself inside a floating village.

 

Down the center was a narrow path, and along either side of it, pillars jutted up from the floor to waist-height. Atop each pillar sat an open faced, clay lantern. Their flames filled the wooded village with light and shadows.

 

Dozens of straw-roof huts cramped in. Jon guessed that two hundred families occupied this collective dwelling.

 

Resembling a barn’s rafters, this village had its own roof. Carved beams worked like huge hinges to open or close sections. Two living trees acted as structural columns, supporting the crossbeams. The rafters must have been laid atop the trees long ago, for the trunks had grown around them and now enveloped the hewn beams. Planks hammered into those trunks created two spiral stairs up to the pair of lookout perches.

 

A third tree grew within Greywater Watch. It was bone white and unblemished by stairs or supports. _A heart tree._ Behind the weirwood and at the opposite side from the drawbridge was a home unlike all the others. The lessor huts were made of straw and sprig. They were light and too short for someone Jon’s height to stand within. The grander home was made of carefully whittled wood. The round exterior was carved to resemble a swamp. The woodwork layered the figures with shadowed reliefs. It was at once humble and awe inspiring.

 

A rustle swept through Greywater. From every hut and every corner of the hidden town, men, women, and children emerged. Jon continued down the lantern pathway. Hundreds of faces stared at him. Their eyes were curious, if fearful, of his presence.

 

The lantern posts diverged and formed a circle around the weirwood. Lord Howland reached it first. Jon watched him greet the regal woman waiting beside the heart tree. She was an inch taller than him. Her brown and grey hair hung in a braid on her shoulder. Reed kissed her hand, then her cheek. “This is my wife,” he said, turning around. “Lady Jyana, let me introduce Ser Jon of Winterfell.”

 

She curtsied.

 

Howland smiled and told her, “He doesn’t trust me yet.”

 

“You’re an odd man of the swamps, my love.” She told Jon, “You have nothing to fear from us. You shall see that in time, just give us the chance to prove ourselves.” Lady Jyana glanced at her husband. “His leg looks healthy to me.”

 

“T’was not _his_ I was meant to heal, my lady.”

 

“No?”

 

He admitted, “I had no time to spare when I came back for the boats.”

 

She pinched his sleeve. “We all thought that was very odd, my love.”

 

Howland asked Jon to explain.

 

“Viserion, my lady,” he said. “Viserion the dragon needs your husband’s aid.”

 

To Jon’s utter surprise, she laughed. “Well,” said Jyana Reed, “ _it’s your muck,_ my lord.”

 

“ _Now I must walk in it,_ ” Howland said, finishing her thought. He beckoned to Jon, then pointed to his left.

 

Jon turned and saw two heads standing taller than the others, a burly woman and brown-bearded man.

 

_“Lady Mormont?”_

 

“And Lord Glover too,” the She-bear added, casting an elbow at the man beside her. They approached and she said, “Sent here by the Young Wolf, may the gods keep him.”

 

“Men and ladies,” Reed announced. “I would welcome home my loyal men and show our honored guest the hospitality of the Neck!”

 

Howland’s crannogmen cheered. Jon turned in a circle, wary of all this attention and still anxious about Viserion.

 

Before he could refuse, he heard Lady Jyana, “My love, see to your men, but leave our guest to my care. Ser Jon of Winterfell, comfort your dragon. I shall meet you on the plank-dock with our greenseer and meals for you both.” She eyed her lord husband. “I should like to have a look at a dragon, my lord.”

 

He kissed her hand. “Of course, my lady.”

 

* * *

 

Nearly an hour after Jon went out to sit at Viserion’s side, Lady Jyana Reed left the lantern-lit township for the moonlight outside. She carried a kettle in each hand. One with a light mist rising off it and the other was awash in vapors as soon as it touched the cold air. Behind her, an ancient man followed. His back was stooped. His cloak was stitched from patches of wool and cotton that resembled leaves. He had a patchy, white beard that appeared twice as long as it was because of his bowed posture. The man leaned on a cane, but was agile in his steps nonetheless.

 

“Ser,” greeted Jyana.

 

“My lady,” Jon returned.

 

“Take the warm kettle,” she told him. “When you’re ready, pour the warm water onto the dragon’s wounds. Look for any broken skin. Wash away the dried blood and dirt with the warm kettle. Then. . .” she hesitated. “Then, we must needs use the hot fig-wine on the wounds. It will hurt, ser.”

 

Jon nodded and began to clean Viserion’s scales. As he worked, the so-called greenseer ducked and dodged behind him, examining Jon’s work but never himself touching the dragon.

 

Jon exchanged one kettle for the other. _This will hurt, Viserion. But it will make you better. Please, no fire._ He poured and she gnashed her teeth. Still the dragon kept as calm as he could ask of her.

 

“Greenseer,” Jon addressed the man, following Lady Jyana’s example. “What of her leg? Can you mend it?”

 

“Only the dragon, the dragon, can heal the dragon’s leg. Young man, we can grant this creature, creature, the best chance to heal itself.”

 

Jon offered his hand to help the ancient man step along the edge of the Viserion’s dock to get close to her leg.

 

“No, no,” he protested. “You, you, will do it. Not a task for me. _For you._ ” Jon asked him what to do, and the seer told him, “Feel along the leg, yes, the leg. Feel the bone. Feeling the bone? Feel a split?”

 

Jon felt a sting in his own knee the very moment he touched the bend in Viserion’s leg. He pushed through the pain. The dragon snarled and tossed her head in all directors. She bashed the side of her head against the ice of the swamp and her horns broke through.

 

Pressing just below the joint, a shock of pain sent Jon reeling and falling to the deckboards. “I found the break,” he said as he gathered himself. “Aye, it’s not the knee. Just. . . below it.”

 

“Good,” replied the greenseer.

 

Jon gave him a sideway glare.

 

Lady Reed offered, “Better it’s the bone out of place, ser, than a tear in the inner flesh.”

 

With the old healer’s guidance, Jon wrapped a rope around Viserion’s knee. Jyana secured the other end to the drawbridge. Viserion allowed Jon to tuck her claw under his arm.

 

“When you’re ready,” said the greenseer.

 

Jon jabbed his boot heel into a chink in the dock. _Are we ready, dragon?_ He pushed hard against the wood, pulling Viserion’s leg backward with all his weight.

 

He felt bone rubbing against bone. Jon and the dragon howled in agony. In a rush, the world went dark.

 

* * *

 

When Jon awoke, he was still beside Viserion. Someone had wrapped him in a blanket, though.

 

“It’s morning, Ser Jon.”

 

He looked up and noticed Lady Jyana in a chair several feet away. She was covered in several furs. A wooden crate was by her feet. “Here is some meat for your dragon. I have a spiced roll for you.”

 

Jon got to his feet. He fetched both meals from the crate, and Viserion indelicately took hers out of his hand.

 

“Forgive me?” asked Jyana. She wore a gentle smile.

 

“What for?”

 

“For the pain dealt to you both.”

 

Jon sighed. “It was necessary.”

 

She smiled again. “Necessary, aye. But still painful beyond measure. Sometimes our worst pains are the ones we _have to_ absorb.” The Lady of Greywater Watch was trying to make a point. He couldn’t see what that point might be. “Broken bones must be set. Broken hearts must be soothed.”

 

Jon understood. “You wish for me to listen to what your lord husband wishes to say about the past. _Painful, but necessary?_ As you will,” he proceeded, gritting his teeth. “Send him out, my lady.”

 

She shook her head. “It needn’t be this very moment.”

 

Stubbornly, he responded, “If what he’ll say is so vital, my lady, why wait. Send him now.”

 

Jyana sighed, then nodded. She stood up from her chair. “I shall, ser. But listen without anger, if you’re able. As I said, what he wishes to tell you will be both painful and necessary.”

 

Howland Reed came out not long after his lady wife left the drawbridge and dock. He stepped cautiously, then took a seat in Jyana’s chair. “You want to talk, Jon?”

 

“No, Lord Reed. It is you who wants to. I only agreed to it.”

 

“Very well.” He forced a smile. “What did my dear ol’, black-cloaked friend say of your mother, Jon?”

 

“This is not light hearted, my lord. Not for me.”

 

Reed looked down. “Of course not. I didn’t mean to. . . Pardons, Jon.” More deliberately, he asked, “What did Ben say about all that transpired between your mother and father, ser?”

 

Over all the years of desiring an explanation, Jon never envisioned having the discussion in a swamp, with someone he barely knew. _It should be Father here with me._ He clenched his jaw for a moment, then began, “I only know the barest tale of what happened. Uncle Benjen said that my father had asked for the hand of my mother, but had to wed the daughter of Lord Tully to gain the Riverlands’ support in the war. My father had no choice.”

 

“Ashara Dayne,” Reed stated, nodding. “Aye, Ned cared deeply for her and would have taken her to wife if not for the Mad King. . . but I see that there remains much you don’t know.”

 

“I would hear what you know.”

 

Reed’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You deserve to hear this, Jon. Your mother would want me to say it. . . And yet, you shall not like what I would tell you. _You won’t,_ my boy. Be certain that you value _the truth_ over _peace of mind,_ for my words will give you the first and take from you the later.”

 

Howland Reed’s hesitance startled Jon. “I want to know,” he pledged. “I can bear it. Please tell me.”

 

Lord Reed pressed his lips together, then began, “More than Ned or Ben, I was the friend of their sister, Lya Stark. She was brave and wild. A better friend you couldn’t find, as her courage led her to be loyal beyond measure. Her tendency toward wildness, to speak truly, led to a great deal of fun.

 

“Fun,” Reed said once more, “but also danger. What did Ben say of his sister and Rhaegar?”

 

“That she fell in love with him at a tourney and when he asked her to, she ran away with him.”

 

“Lya was Lya,” responded Howland. “We were all so young in those days. I hope Benjen doesn’t blame her for what she did.” He took a breath and left something unsaid. “Rhaegar was a man-grown. Heir to the Mad King’s crown. He should have known better. He should’ve never. . . But, it helps no one to dwell on such things.

 

“Jon? Ned wanted to keep you safe from harm above all else. . .”

 

Howland closed his jaw. Opening his mouth again seemed to require great effort. The man’s eagerness was gone. “Ned told you about our fight with the three men of the Targaryen Kingsguard: the White Bull, the bat-helmed knight, and the Sword of the Morning. Didn’t he? Do you know why they were there?”

 

Jon didn’t quite understand. He offered, “Because of Rhaegar Targaryen.”

 

“That is true. . . in part. Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent were the prince’s constant companions, and his mad father sent Lord Commander Hightower to find Prince Rhaegar after the throne’s early defeats. But why were they still at the Tower of Joy? To protect Lya?”

 

The questions irked Jon. He floundered and then said, “To keep Rhaegar’s prisoner from being rescued.”

 

Reed shook his head. “As Benjen told you, Lya was no prisoner.” He looked Jon in the eye. “Rhaegar died on the Trident. I was at Ned’s side in that battle. I saw the prince’s corpse in the aftermath. Once their crown prince had fallen to Robert, why did the Kingsguard remain at the Tower? Why not forget Lya and ride to war? To avenge their fallen king?”

 

Jon couldn’t see where this tale was heading, but indulged Howland by guessing, “Because they didn’t know of Rhaegar’s defeat?”

 

Lord Reed did not grin, but something shined within his eyes. “They knew,” he assured. “And that is an important part of this song, my son. Ashara Dayne.” He stated the name as if it were an answer of its own.

 

Jon asked him to explain.

 

“Only she knew where the prince had taken Lya. From her brother, the Sword of the Morning. In the shadow of Storm’s End, Ned accepted Lord Tyrell’s surrender. It was there that Lady Ashara found us. She rode into camp upon a magnificent, white steed with a second horse in tow. She told Ned where to find his sister.”

 

“But the Kingsguard, you said. . .”

 

“After the Trident, the Mad King opened his gates to Tywin, and Tywin unleashed his beasts upon King’s Landing. Lannister’s knights killed Elia Martell and her two children. The Kingsguard three only learned that Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys had survived, when Ned told them. The duty of the Kingsguard, in their minds, was protecting the last of their king’s line: the newly born, natural son their prince got on Lya. A boy Rhaegar wanted to call Jaehaerys, after his grandfather. A boy later renamed Jon.”

 

_No. . . He can’t mean. . ._

 

Reed sighed. “Aye, my son. It was you. Ned brought you first to Starfall, then back to Winterfell.”

 

“He brought me to Winterfell, aye. I was his son! _Not bloody Rhaegar’s._ Ned Stark’s! Just look at me.”

 

“I am looking. I see your mother’s face in yours.”

 

Desperate to disregard the story, Jon growled, “If you think I’m anything but my father’s son, more the fool are you. Aye,” he said, feeling more sure of himself. “You’re not the first to concoct something like this. Lord Godric Borrell had a tale about my mother, the fisherman’s daughter. He, to his credit, didn’t invent _a new father_ to boot.”

 

_Rhaegar the kidnapper. Rhaegar the raper. I have nothing to do with that man._

 

He rose to his feet. The raft rocked beneath him. Viserion made a low growl at being disturbed. Jon couldn’t endure another minute with this man. He sneered, “Bugger a swamp viper, you frog-lord. Keep your lies to yourself.”

 

Howland Reed didn’t react to the insult. He pulled his legs out of the way. Reed said to Jon’s back, “I told you no lies. I won’t try to convince you of what to believe. The truth belongs to you. Curse it, ignore it, or believe it as you please.”

 

* * *

 

Losing track of the hours, Jon found himself sitting on the drawbridge of Greywater Watch with only Viserion’s silence as company. He stared aimlessly at the patches of ice on the surface of the bog.

 

Lady Maege Mormont came upon him, disturbing the quiet. Jon had no desire to talk to anyone and could guess at what the She-bear was there to say.

 

She didn’t speak at first. From the tension, though, Jon felt that she soon would. He pre-empted her comments. “Just don’t, Lady Mormont. No, just don’t.”

 

She remained quiet for several long minutes.

 

Finally, Mormont asked, “How am I doing with your dragon? You said my Alysanne showed no fear. How does _her mother_ compare?”

 

“Fine, my lady.”

 

“Mayhaps there’s some food I might bring it,” she suggested. “That tactic works for hounds and horses.”

 

“Viserion is neither.”

 

“Works for young men, too,” Maege remarked. “If you plan to stay out here all day, then you must needs eat something. What can I bring for you?”

 

He glanced at her. “Nothing.”

 

“Oh? Is it your wish to show off how stubborn you can be? My girls are fond of this game.”

 

“This not a game and I’m not playing at anything.”

 

“That’s how my girls always start the game!” Lady Mormont’s smile was missing a tooth on the right side. “Then I always say next, ‘How about a heel of bread?’ Hmm? Bread, Jon?”

 

He did not reply.

 

“No, no. That isn’t how to play. You have to shake your head. I ask, ‘Bread?’ And you shake your head.” Maege began over again, saying, “How ‘bout a heel of bread?”

 

He first thought to stomp away. That option felt useless. Jon sighed. “I thought it would matter more. I suppose it doesn’t, really. Maybe Uncle Benjen’s right about Ashara Dayne, or Lord Reed is right about Lyanna Stark, or Borrell. . . even he sounded sure when he told me of some fisherman’s daughter. But, does it matter who my mother was? I thought. . .

 

“My father used to tell me, ‘Jon, when you’re a man grown we shall talk of your mother.’ Back then, didn’t even have her name. Now I have too many names. What good is a name? I still had no mother when I was young enough to need one. _Lord Stark’s bastard_ was all I ever was, and now. . . mayhaps not even that.

 

“I thought finding out who my mother was. . . I thought it’d be a revelation. That it would give me _something._ It hasn’t. It makes no matter now.”

 

Lady Mormont asked, “When you met my daughter, what did the pair of you speak on?”

 

“What?”

 

The She-bear repeated her question, but said nothing about why she was asking.

 

Not knowing what else to say, Jon answered, “We spoke of our daughters and of wargs.”

 

Maege smiled. “Daughters and wargs, eh? Both are equal measures of magic and trouble. What is your girl’s name?”

 

“Halya, after my wife’s uncle.”

 

“My third is named for her uncle. My brother, Jeor, was a stern and stubborn boy. He changed little as a man grown. My Jorelle is similar in some ways. What is young Halya like?”

 

Jon raised his eyes. “I’m still growing familiar with her. I missed much. . . Lydrea says she’s very much like Lord Halys. Carefree, joyful. _Devoted_ to my little brother, whom she treats like her own brother.” He added, “In her eyes, a brother and a god mixed into one wild, little boy.”

 

“I look forward to the end of our wars,” she said, “when I might bring my grand-cubs to Winterfell to meet your brother and little girl. You and I shall stand back and watch the children chase their mothers to the end of their wits.”

 

Maege put a hand on his shoulder. “Jon, all children lose their parents. Whether it be at a tender age or into their grey years. Whether they spent everyday in the same holdfast or if they never shared one word. No matter the time together or the circumstance of the death, the grief stings you to your core.

 

“We tell ourselves, ‘If only I had more day, it wouldn’t hurt.’ Or else, ‘If I could’ve said my farewells, if _this,_ if _only that._ ’ It makes no matter, Jon. Whatever wish the son has, were it fulfilled, he’d only realize another regret. In truth, the grief is real and those wishes are false. No _one last anything_ would sooth your grief.” Tapping a finger on the boards they sat upon, she said, “Not even the lesson I give you now will scrub away your heartache. But if you accept the words I’m telling you, then you can begin the road to feeling at ease.

 

“Do not,” she commanded, “drink away your sorrow. Do not lie to yourself and do not lay blame on others. Follow those trails and you’ll gallop yourself off a cliff from which you won’t come back.”

 

“Then what _should_ I do?” Jon questioned. He sounded genuine in the asking, where he meant to be mocking.

 

“Share stories of your lord father. Share them with Lord Eddard’s friends. Share them with your children. Of your mother? Well, I’m not certain. Mayhaps. . . say that you do not know. Lady Ashara Dayne was a famed beauty. Mayhaps send a raven to her kin. You also mention a fisherman,” Maege prodded.

 

“Lord Borrell knew my father briefly. On his way from the Eyrie to Winterfell - before the rebellion - he was shipwrecked, but saved by a fishing girl.”

 

“A hero for a mother,” Lady Maege cheered. She had the same wide smile as Alysanne. “If that’s the worst, ser.”

 

“But it’s not the worst,” Jon said back, and his tone turned dark once again.

 

Mormont’s grin faded, but she didn’t look away. “Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark. . . a mess for certain, but think of Ned in that case.”

 

 _He wouldn’t be my father,_ Jon told himself. He said nothing aloud.

 

Maege spoke, “Ned would’ve then taken you for his own. Raised you as his own. Did you ever lack for a father?”

 

Jon shook his head.

 

“The last two years have filled the realm with orphans. Highborn and common. Few will have so good a father as you did, no matter whether he sired you.”

 

Mormont rose to her feet, but wasn’t finished speaking. “Mourn the good man who was your father. Mourn the mother you didn’t know. Face the grief and carry onward. For if you let anything from your birth. . . if you yield defeat to your sorrow, you’ll only be cheating your daughter of the father she deserves.

 

“Take a lesson from Ned Stark,” she pressed. Maege sat back down. “Six-and-ten years ago, Lord Ned was without the mother who died long before. His father and brother had just been murdered by the Mad King. His sister returned to Winterfell as bones and Ned’s last sibling left to take the black. Ned Stark had the weight of the entire North on his shoulders. With all he endured, your father climbed that mountain of grief to raise you right. Your struggle is tragically similar to Ned’s. . . but if you’re half as much like him as you look, I believe you’ll bear it with strength to spare.”

 

Jon felt the comfort of her words. He wondered if that was what having a mother was like.

 

He watched her stand up and turn to leave. “Wait, my lady,” he called to her. “Please, do you. . . If Rhaegar was my. . .” Jon couldn’t say the word. “That would explain. . . _A dragon in the snow, its leg injured._ . . Howland Reed is right, isn’t he?”

 

“I think it amounts to not even one groat of difference, boy.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Miggy, Schraeder, Jess, Hachi, and Odran for their help writing this chapter!


	81. Davos - A King's Man

Ser Wylis Manderly sat in his lord father’s ornate seat in the Merman’s Court. He seemed reluctant to welcome the king. Davos Seaworth, standing on Manderly’s left, could barely contain himself. White Harbor guardsmen threw open the doors and Stannis Baratheon appeared.

 

On His Grace’s right was old Ser Osmund Wylde and on his left was Ser Clayton Suggs, a brute and a lacky of Ser Godry Farring. The king looked vital. His cheeks were pink and hale. The beard that had appeared so sparse when last Davos saw him, was coarse and black once more.

 

Beneath those whiskers, a flat but unmistakable grin emerged. “The Onion Knight returns from the dead.”

 

Seaworth kneeled. “It was a ruse, sire. To trick Tywin Lannister into releasing Ser Wylis.”

 

“Rise, Lord Davos. I know of your service to White Harbor and to me.” He looked to the man seated on the wooden throne adorned with sea life. “You are Lord Wyman’s heir, are you not?”

 

“I am Ser Wylis Manderly, my lord.”

 

Davos was quick to correct him, “Stannis Baratheon is the rightful King of Westeros.”

 

Stannis raised a hand. “Meant well, Davos. . . but not necessary. Soon enough, I’ll win my throne and never again need remind any man of my title.”

 

“Sire,” Davos responded, bowing his head.

 

The meal that Wylis called for was more supper than feast. Stannis’s knights were given places above the salt. His wildling followers were allowed into the New Castle, but not the Merman’s Court. Davos tried to distinguish whether his king was restraining himself or if he truly didn’t see the lack of fanfare as a sign of disrespect.

 

After the modest meal, he met with King Stannis alone. It was fitting, in his opinion, that they conversed in the same map room where Lord Wyman had explained to Davos that his execution was a farce. _I thought I was walking to my death that night. Instead, I received new life and a new undertaking._ He expected this meeting would similarly result in a new struggle ahead.

 

Before discussing the future, Davos felt it was his duty to question the agreement with Winterfell. “Did you agree to those terms with free will, Your Grace?”

 

“Does this old smuggler believe his king got swindled?”

 

“Never, sire. I wouldn’t-”

 

Stannis interrupted, “The North and Riverlands to the Stark girl for nine ships? A king’s Hand _should_ cast an ill-eye at that.” He cleared his throat. “ _For Shireen,_ Davos. Not the ships. Winterfell is the last place in the Seven Kingdoms where I could leave her. High walls and a she-dragon will make for the best of safekeeping.”

 

_The dragon._

 

“I saw it at a distance,” Seaworth replied. “When its master was at White Harbor, the beast stayed offshore - hunting seals around the rocks in the bay.”

 

“I remain suspicious of the dragon,” Stannis confessed. He raised his brow to Davos. “I’ve yet to lose my wits, Onion Knight.

 

“In the history of dragonriders,” the king continued, “there were as many honorbound heroes as tyrants. Even besides the Targaryens themselves, four lowborn subjects mounted dragons during the Dance. Two traitors and two who upheld their vows. I suspect that Ned Stark’s bastard is of the later sort.

 

“In the cases of those dragonriders, the beasts did as their masters bid - for the heroes and turncloaks alike. Ser Jon Whitewolf or Snow, whichever you know the boy by, his pale dragon is like to follow his lead as the creature’s predecessors did their masters.

 

“Davos,” said the king, changing his tone and reaching into his cloak. At just a glance, Seaworth noticed His Grace’s seriousness abade. Stannis Baratheon didn’t smile as other men would at moments of levity; it wasn’t in his nature. The change was nonetheless noticeable. “I have something for you.”

 

The king opened his hand, and Seaworth saw a plain, brown pouch in his palm. Davos accepted it and emptied the contents into his shortened hand.

 

“It is the tip off the dragon’s chipped claw,” Stannis told him. “To replace your lost luck, Onion Knight.”

 

Davos Seaworth was in awe. It was the color of beaten gold and almost weightless. The piece of nail from the she-dragon’s claw was as long as Seaworth’s thumb. He pressed the pad of his forefinger to the point and it pricked his skin.

 

“Take care, ser. It’s a good deal sharper than your finger bones.”

 

“Yes, sire.” Davos pulled the leather string out of the pouch, placed the claw inside, and hung it around his neck. “You’re too generous, Your Grace.”

 

This man, _this king,_ who raised Davos up from a life of smuggling looked ready to say something more. Words and emotions seemed to be straining to show themselves. Stannis, though, held his tongue.

 

Seaworth saved him from the silence, “Did Lord Manderly tell you of the bargain he offered me?”

 

“Aye, his liege for his knee,” answered Stannis, becoming himself once more. “You found Rickon Stark, and Manderly was to join me. Does it trouble you that he won’t uphold that pledge? That I won’t hold him to it?”

 

“I know Your Grace will do what is right and true.”

 

“ _What is right and true,_ wouldn’t that mean hanging the Manderlys for oathbreakers?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The ships were his ransom. I pardoned him his broken compact. Don’t think I’ve turned into Robert,” he said with a huff. “The Manderly vows to the Starks are ancient, as I was recently reminded. No smuggler, no matter how daring, could erase that loyalty in a single voyage.”

 

“How do matters stand? I mean, how will things stand once you take your rightful throne?”

 

“Still certain of your king’s victory?” He let out a brief, sharp chuckle. “So long as a Lannister whelp sits the throne, the North will never yield. No Lannister dominion will ever last over them. But if it is I who sit the Iron Throne, and if I ask for their fealty? They will freely give it.”

 

Davos nodded.

 

“I will allow the riverlords to continue their fealty to the Young Wolf’s kin.” Stannis explained, “The riverlords have always been quick to revolt. It would suit the realm to have the Riverlands become a permanent part of one of the true kingdoms of the Seven Kingdoms. The Stormlords ruled the Riverlands once and the Ironborn afterwards. Both saw constant revolt. Let the Northmen test their mettle next. To Robb Stark, the lords pledged their loyalty freely under the threat of neither a noose nor a drowning. Mayhaps that shall mark the difference.”

 

“Mayhaps it will. The Starks are men of a different breed, sire. When the Stark boy was here, a direwolf was his constant companion. A frightful sight to me, just another nursemaid to them.”

 

“After all the strange lands you saw as a smuggler, would you have e’er thought the strangest still would be on Westeros soil?”

 

Davos smiled and shook his head. “What of their queen?” he asked next. “She’s but a child still. Unready for rule, I thought. Most of all when enemies are still afield.”

 

“True, Davos. But that is all the more encouraging. Think on it,” suggested Stannis. “If the Northmen are willing to pledge themselves to her, to bind their fates to the girl in wartime. . . it speaks to their opinion of her and of their loyalty to House Stark. To choose her during peace and summer would be easy and say little of their opinions of her. During winter and war, however. . .”

 

Davos paused before answering. His next thought felt like he was questioning his king’s wisdom. After another moment, he voiced, “Is something afoot among the lords, Your Grace? Why not take Jon the Whitewolf for their liege? Or the ferocious boy if not? Might the Northmen want for a weaker ruler for some. . . later trick?”

 

“A clever notion, smuggler.” Stannis stroked a stray hair from his beard. “But no. It was her bastard brother who most enforced the choice. He allowed no dissent against the Stark girl. Not for his own claim. Not for his younger - _trueborn_ \- brother’s.”

 

Davos was reminded of Stannis forfeiting Storm’s End to Renly when Robert asked it of him.

 

“The Vale will follow where Winterfell leads,” continued the king. “For now that means independence. Once I come into my throne, I am certain the North will fall in line. The Vale will do the same, once Winterfell has.”

 

Stannis Baratheon was unlike all other men in how sure he could be. Davos hid his worry, but touched the pouch around his neck. In his heart, he fretted about what might happen with the Vale of Arryn ruled by a boy and the North and Riverlands by a maid. _If they would bow to Stannis on some future day, why have they not bowed to him already?_  He did not like the prospect of yet more war after Stannis takes the Iron Throne.

 

“Ahead for you and I,” relayed Stannis Baratheon. He paused for a moment, making sure he had Seaworth’s ear. “Braavos.”

 

“Braavos, sire?”

 

Stannis made a thin smile. “An envoy of the Iron Bank met my host on the march from Deepwood to Winterfell. Upon my agreement to abide Robert’s debts. . .” He clenched his teeth. “ _And_ the debts Cersei’s eldest bastard ran up. . . The Iron Bank of Braavos shall fund my war. I sent Justin Massey back with that foreign haggler. They would have left Eastwatch-by-the-Sea two moons ago, depending on how badly the snows hindered them.”

 

“Ser Wylis could send a raven to the Watch,” suggested Davos.

 

“Mayhaps. . . but I will not wait. No, Onion Knight. We claim our nine warships and embark onto the Narrow Sea as soon as we’re able.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

Stannis didn’t say anything else. He simply turned on his heels and left.

 

_Sleep well, sire. Such determination requires a well-rested constitution._

 

* * *

 

Davos didn’t have the words to express how it felt to have a deck beneath his boots once more. His boyhood adventures, his greatest triumphs, and his worst tragedies, all happened aboard ships. He looked to his king. Stannis was a man of the sea almost as much as Davos was. He looked rejuvenated by the salt air.

 

Ser Wylis Manderly fulfilled Jon Whitewolf’s promise of nine warships, but that did not include a pledge of the men needed to dip the oars. Knights and wildlings took up the places in the oarwall. The king’s men were accustomed to the roll of the breakers. The wildlings didn’t have the stomach for the waves and many vomited between strokes.

 

The king insisted that his flagship maintain full speed all day and night. The other captains, picked from among his knights, were forced to keep pace. In only five days, they crossed from White Harbor to the City of Braavos. It was a remarkable time for any novice crew.

 

Stannis’s fleet drifted under the legs of the Titan of Braavos. Though in awe, the wildlings still chose to call it, “The Giant’s Crotch.”

 

Davos hollered to the harbor-master for nine moorings. The Braavosi signalled for them to follow a boy, who set off running to one end of Ragman’s Harbor.

 

Once the ships were tied on, Stannis wasted no time on trivialities like rest. Leaving behind only a minimal garrison to watch over the galleys, the king ordered nearly all of his soldiers to follow him into the city. Down the gangplank, Davos stayed by the king’s side.

 

Without prompting, Stannis disclosed, “We head for the Iron Bank.”

 

* * *

 

The plaza of the Moon Pool was the center of Braavos. It was encircled by the finest tier of brothels, the entry-castle to the Sealord’s Palace, and most importantly, the Iron Bank of Braavos.

 

Stannis Baratheon walked with an obvious determination. The garish swordsmen milling about stepped from the king’s path without needing to be told.

 

To look at the entrance of the Iron Bank, one could scarcely imagine the wealth within. The main doors were spade-shaped and not overly large. Above, a bronze bell hung in a small tower. A former sealord built a massive belltower in the palace a century ago. Ever since, the Iron Bank no longer rang in the dawn, midday, or dusk. Yet, the bankers still kept their own bell and tower in pristine condition.

 

An envoy of the bank came out to meet them before they reached the doors. The Braavosi carried himself like no steward Davos had ever met. He was older than fifty. He stood six and a half feet tall with a wiry build. The top of his head was bald. The hair he still had, he grew it long, perfumed it with oil, and tied the ends. He wore a long tunic with silvery buttons down the middle. A jeweled key hung on a golden chain around his neck.

 

“King Stannis,” the Braavosi began. “The Iron Bank welcomes the true king of the Seven Kingdoms. I am Tormo Fregar, a keyholder of the Hall of Justice and a ranking patron of our magnificent bank.” His annunciation of the Common Tongue was perfect. “We cannot accommodate all of your sworn swords inside.”

 

“I will enter. I need bring only my Hand.”

 

“Just so,” Fregar replied, bowing. “Davos the Hand be welcome.”

 

“You know me?” he wondered.

 

“Do not fear. Tormo Fregar does not spy on you.” With a tug, he straightened his tunic. “Your Lord of Massey preceded your arrival.” Tormo offered, “Follow me inside, if you will. We have much to speak on.”

 

The entry chamber led to another set of steel doors, thicker than the first. Behind those was the Iron Bank’s Long Hall. Along both sides of the hall were doors to a hundred meeting rooms. Each of those smaller rooms was lavishly furnished to the finest standards of one of the cultures with which the Iron Bank commerced.

 

As he and Stannis followed Fregar, Davos peered into one of the chambers that another party was leaving. He glimpsed an intricate tapestry inside. It depicted a young man, proud and smiling, with a maiden to either side of him. Looking down at the youth were dozens of old faces on a balcony curving around him.

 

 _Pentos,_ Seaworth recognized. _The Prince of Pentos with the maids of the waters and the farms. But behind him - and always above him - the forty magisters._

 

Davos began to wonder what the Stormlands’ room might look like.   
  


While the chambers for envoys from the Free Cities were near the entrance and looked well trafficked, the one Tormo Fregar was leading to was near the far end of the Long Hall. Reaching it, he heard the lock grinding with rust as Fregar struggled to turn the key.

 

The chamber they entered was nothing like he expected. There were no racks of antlers or etchings of forests. No knights or stormwaters crashing. With a ceiling twice as high as the Pentoshi chamber, every inch of the tight, tall room was covered in images of dragons. Spiraling up were Valyrian-style carvings, sculpted with magic in place of chisels. The depictions had been pushed up against the plain, stone walls. The ceiling extended to the roof of the bank and the window overhead was framed in a wooden silhouette of a dragon in flight, letting streaks of sunlight in and casting shadows.

 

_Who does this Braavosi think he’s meeting with?_

 

A corner hearth of black iron had been forged into the shape of a dragon’s open mouth. Fregar opened the flue and touched his candle to the prepared tinder. The years old kindling ignited. Basking in the privilege of showing off this chamber, Tormo turned to face Stannis. Stannis Baratheon did not remark on the wondrous and terrifying room. He took the seat behind the stone table. Fregar couldn’t hide his disappointment.

 

_You back the wrong king, my lord, if you’re hoping for one impressed by decorations._

 

Adjusting to his client’s demeanor, Tormo produced his ledger and a map of the Narrow Sea. “Shall we begin now?”

 

“I need the gold your banker pledged.”

 

Fregar bowed his head and took the seat opposite Stannis. “Just so. You must have swords and men to swing them, enough to defeat your enemies. The Iron Bank of Braavos is not in the habit of tossing away coins. The bank does not kiss a copper and throw it in the sea, like a captain wishing for fair weather. The bank makes no wishes.”

 

Stannis made a grunt. Davos knew it meant the king was pleased with what he heard, but wondered how Tormo regarded the sound.

 

“When will I have it?” asked the king.

 

“Did Tycho Nestoris not explain? No? Permit me, then. The bank does not expect you to carry your gold in a horse cart or in the hold of a ship. The bank sees that as too risky. Your horse might die. Your ship might sink. And then, what shall happen to our gold? Hmm? King of the Seven Kingdoms, the bank shall send one of its own with you. With ink and lambskin, he shall grant our gold as you see fit. But the sellswords shall have to stay true, if they wish to ever see their due. If you win your Throne of Iron, all shall prosper. If your sellswords die, then, no coin is wasted. If you die, the same.”

 

Davos knew the king’s ire was coming a moment before he reacted.

 

 _“That_ is your pledge of gold?” Spite dripped from his words. “Parchment you can later revoke? I came to Braavos _for gold._ As your man swore.”

 

Fregar’s demeanor didn’t change. “Surely, if the king’s sellswords fall in battle, you would not wish for our gold to be pilfered off their corpses and used to pay stipends to the soldiers who killed them?”

 

Stannis tightened his jaw for a moment, then relaxed. “If the sellswords will accept that, fine. I care nothing for how they’re paid, so long as they fight for me.”

 

“Just so. Next let us speak of your battles.”

 

“My battles? You mean you wish to know my strategy?” The king was incredulous.

 

Fregar nodded. “The Iron Bank will keep your confidence, if that is your fear.”

 

“My strategy is my own. I am not in the habit of blabbing it to any banker who sees fit to ask.”

 

“Does the king believe I am just _any_ envoy of the Iron Bank?” Tormo Fregar straighten the silver buttons on his tunic. “There is no bigger investment, in present negotiations, than ours in you. The Iron Bank sent our most diligent servant to find you in the frozen Northlands. Now that you sit within our great building, do you think we drew lots for this duty?”

 

Stannis did not reply.

 

“Tormo Fregar is a Keyholder to the Halls of Justice. ‘Fregar’ is among the founding families of Braavos. Have you met the _illustrious_ Sealord of Braavos? Antaryon has been a wasteful, careless leader. The Iron Bank will not abide another like him, once he dies."

 

Davos knew his liege wasn't fond of round-the-way answers.

 

“In Braavos, we select each new sealord by a vote of Keyholders. But, our blades do most of the deciding before we ever sit down to cast our votes. I am almost a decade older than the current sealord, but spry enough to outlive him by twice that. The Iron Bank does not involve itself in every selection, but during some generations we have no choice. As the bank supports your claim to the Sunset Kingdoms, so too will it support my claim to Braavos.

 

“As one future ruler to another, King Stannis, let us discuss your war.”

 

Stannis clenched his teeth.

 

Davos Seaworth suggested, “We cannot launch an attack on King’s Landing from here. Braavos is too far. Our men will need to rest and ready themselves beforehand.” He glanced at Stannis to make sure he wasn't speaking out of turn. “Ser Wylis Manderly said that Loras Tyrell besieged Dragonstone and took it, then Paxter Redwyne set sail for the Reach. Dragonstone is like to be barely guarded, and who better to conquer it than His Grace?”

 

A devious look bloomed in Tormo’s eyes. “Dragonstone is not the ripe target you may believe it to be, lord hand. Is it not a daunting fortress? Near to impossible to take in a siege? Sharp cliffs. Strong walls. Aenar the Exile, it is said, built his fortress in the Valyrian fashion, with spells and masonry skill lost to time. You would lose half your sellswords on those black cliffs. Save Dragonstone for a later day.”

 

Stannis Baratheon scowled. “What Loras Tyrell took in a single day, I will not have men say I was unable to take at all.”

 

“If he took it in the first place. . .”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Davos.

 

“The Iron Bank trades in whispers with the skill to rival any king’s spymaster. You see, there is a new pirate-captain in the Stepstones. He styles himself the Lord of the Waters. His flagship is a vessel of unprecedented size, a dromond with more than twice the oars of any Braavosi galley. He has two other massive ships and has added to that three-ship fleet by routing every ship he can catch. Few can outrun this pirate-lord. No ship can sink him.

 

“Those three dromonds, though, in them the Iron Bank took special interest. You see, Queen Cersei paid for those very same ships with the gold she owed us. Stealing the ships as recompense. . . fitting, no? Our spies in King’s Landing pledged themselves to Lord Admiral Aurane Waters and took up his oars. They, however, never got the chance to fulfill our plot. The queen's admiral stole them from her first. And yet, the bank's endeavor was not fruitless. Captain Waters, now sailing between pirate boroughs in the Stepstones, is fond of bragging to his men. Our spies amongst them smuggled word back to us.

 

“And that returns me to Dragonstone. King Baratheon, your island was never taken by force. It was _purchased._ ”

 

Stannis scoffed at that. “Taken by storm is unlikely. Bought with coin? _Impossible._ Not my men. Not my castellan. Ser Rolland Storm was constant in his loyalty. No man hated the Lannister queen more. He would never submit to her forces. A bribe? Not this knight.”

 

“Ah, but not all bribes are paid for with gold. Rolland Storm, if the Iron Bank of Braavos heard true, is the brother of the Lord of Nightsong. But the brother is dead, no? Killed by a knight called, ‘Foot.’ And the same queen who thought it wise to abandon her debt to the Iron Bank named _Ser Foot_ the new Lord of Nightsong. Rolland Storm saw his brother’s lordship bestowed upon his brother’s killer, no?”

 

“He was wroth beyond measure,” acknowledged Davos, thinking back to those chaotic days after the Battle of the Blackwater.

 

“Just so,” replied the wily banker. “Ser Loras of Tyrell offered the only thing in all the world that would convince Ser Rolland to forget his vows: _Vengeance._ Tyrell pledged that once they free their Shields of iron pirates, his army shall march from Highgarden to Nightsong and help Ser Storm retake his brother’s home. To slay his brother’s killer.

 

“The boy-king, who so admired the Knight of Flowers, did not hesitate to affix his seal to any parchment Ser Loras asked him to. Including, as heard from Captain Waters’ lips, a legitimization decree.”

 

“That turncloak! I’ll take his legitimized head!”

 

Nightsong stood as a cornerstone castle marking the far edge of the Stormlands and was closer to Highgarden than Storm’s End. It was where the Stormlands, the Reach, and the Red Mountains of Dorne converged. In the years of old, the Dornish and the Gardner Kings besieged Nightsong frequently. It occurred to Davos that Highgarden might, all these centuries later, finally gain control of that stronghold.

 

“Do not be too angry, my king,” said Tormo. “Ser Storm did help to kill some thousand or so of your enemies. How, you ask? After they came to their agreement, Rolland and the garrison helped Loras kill the Westermen with him. One thousand men, many of them lords and knights, were slaughtered. Why? To weaken the Lannister queen, for one. But more so, because the Reach was being assaulted by iron pirates. Redwyne and Tyrell wanted no resistance to setting sail. They would take no chances that the queen might change her mind and insist the Redwyne fleet stay near King’s Landing. No,” he said, shaking his head. “Better to kill one thousand Westermen than to chance that. The queen, however, was imprisoned and marched naked through the streets soon after Loras Tyrell’s betrayal, so the slaughter wasn’t needed after all.

 

“Waters sold this farce to the queen and convinced her that Ser Loras was gravely wounded, to buy the Kingsguard knight the time to fight in the Reach and Stormlands. For playing his role, Lord Admiral Aurane Waters was permitted to take the queen’s new ships as he pleased. Likely, Redwyne and Tyrell believed he would bring them to Driftmark, restarting the Velaryon fleet and making peace with one of Your Grace’s vassals, House Velaryon. Alas, not all bastards are so devoted to their kin as Rolland Storm.”

 

A vein pulsed at Stannis’s temple. He was like to grind his teeth to dust.

 

Tormo Fregar directed his next words to Davos. “Redwyne and Tyrell left a meaningful garrison of men with generations of fealty to Highgarden. We shall find no friends on Dragonstone.”

 

“Friends?” challenged Stannis. “You speak of my affairs like you are a part of them. Those were _my men._ That was _my castle._ These will be _my battles_ ahead. Do not speak to me like a friend.”

 

“Am I not?” Fregar asked slyly. “The Iron Bank is the truest friend you have, King Stannis.”

 

Seaworth tried to draw his liege away from his anger. “Your Grace, if Dragonstone is well defended, then mayhaps it would be wise to leave it.” He added, “For the nonce, sire. Lord Fregar, who controls Storm’s End? News in White Harbor wasn’t clear.”

 

The Braavosi replied, “The Golden Company.”

 

 _“The Golden Company?”_ Stannis wasn’t pleased.

 

Tormo nodded once. “Under that employ of either a man called, ‘The Griffin Lord,’ or else by someone styling himself, ‘Prince Aegon Targaryen’.”

 

Stannis scoffed. “Only one Targaryen yet lives and we know her name. This ‘Aegon’ is a sellsword’s farce and a pretender to my throne.”

 

“ _Griffin Lord,_ ” Davos wondered aloud. “Red Ronnet? Why would he march against Storm’s End?”

 

The king’s voice was low and harsh as he said, “Ser Ronnet Connington is as ambitious as any knight. Not long ago, the Conningtons were lords. Mayhaps this griffin hopes to hand over Storm’s End to curry favor with Mace Tyrell.”

 

That seemed reasonable to Davos, but Tormo Fregar disagreed. “No, Your Grace. A Tyrell army marched away from King’s Landing, headed for Storm’s End. The Justiciar to the Iron Throne, a man called Tarly, leads this army. If your _Red Griffin_ is indeed behind this, he is no friend of the Tyrell overlords.”

 

Through his teeth, Stannis declared, “Duty before rights, and victory before pride.”

 

“Your Grace?”

 

“We shall let the Conningtons, Tyrells, and the Golden Company bleed each other dry. The thought of any of them inside the walls of my dead father’s castle. . .” He made two fists and held them so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I will strike where most advantageous, _not_ where I most desire to.”

 

“Where’ll that be, sire?”

 

Before answering, Stannis posed, “Fregar, you say Mace Tyrell sent one host to Storm’s End and Paxter Redwyne is sailing another to the Reach.” When Tormo Fregar nodded, the king concluded, “Thus the Fat Flower cannot have very many men left at his disposal.”

 

Stannis Baratheon prefaced his next thought, “Whenever Robert failed to allot enough of his own grain for the future, he always turned to the nearby lords to keep King's Landing fed. Rosby was foremost among them. I expect Cersei and the Tyrells have been likewise relying on the Crownlands.” He ran his fingertips along his scalp. “Highgarden is a long haul for a mule. If Rosby were closed to him, Mace Tyrell would discover just _how_ long.”

 

_Castle Rosby._

 

“Very good, my king,” replied the Braavosi.

 

Stannis lost himself in thought. Seaworth and Fregar waited for him to speak.

 

“The Queen in the North hasn’t bent the knee, no more than the Young Wolf did, but that does not make her my enemy.” His jaw shifted side to side. “With her riverlords at our rear, we could attack swiftly - almost recklessly - and never suffer a counter assault from behind. Rosby, Stokeworth, Duskendale, and Hayford. If I take these castles, the suppers in King’s Landing will be sparse indeed. Mace Tyrell will have to take them back. With Redwyne and Tarly gone from the city walls, I expect the prideful fool will head the host himself.”

 

Tormo Fregar smiled at this plan. “The Iron Bank can see that the boy-king’s Hand hears whispers about broken men - _outlaws_ \- in the Crownlands, rather than a host organized under a famed commander.”

 

Stannis ignored the compliment. “More importantly, see that he hears the lords of the realm are doubting his courage.”

 

 _Mace Tyrell won’t be able to help himself._ Davos said, “If the Tyrells’ ships are in the Reach and with Rosby so close to the bay, Your Grace can maneuver on the water.”

 

Stannis Baratheon huffed an agreeable grunt. “Now you are aware of my strategy, Lord Fregar. So tell me, where is Ser Justin Massey and where are my sellswords?”

 

“Your Lord of Massey sailed to Lorath. With the Iron Bank’s aid, he is recruiting, my king. I cannot say how long he will be. Until his return, I think we all must wait.”

 

“And you do not know how much longer he will be?”

 

Tormo shook his head, humbly. “Soon, I hope.”

 

“We must all hope it’s soon,” Stannis replied. “Elsewise, Lord Tarly could return from Storm’s End with Red Ronnet’s head on a pike just in time to save Mace Tyrell from himself.” The king got to his feet, “Very well. I will await your word from the cabin of my ship.”

 

“I would beg a moment more, Your Grace. Please do not leave yet. May I confess to something?” asked Tormo Fregar and Stannis returned to the desk. “When a lord, prince, or king comes to the Iron Bank, he meets first with, shall we say, a _lesser_ envoy of the bank. A man of my stature would only come up to the Long Hall once the preliminaries are settled.

 

“Queen Cersei’s Master of Coin,” Tormo said with a smirk, “was never permitted any such higher audience.” He resumed his main thread, “I selected to forgo tradition on your arrival. I wished to meet you for myself. Will Your Grace allow me to explain why? It will be a lengthy explanation that shall begin with a story.”

 

“A story?” Stannis questioned.

 

“Just so. An _important_ story that may ring familiar in your ears, but mayhaps you’ve never heard it before.” He resumed quickly, not giving Stannis the opportunity to refuse. “It begins with three boys. These boys were of the highest birth. All from proud and powerful families. They grew up together in the Red Keep of King’s Landing. Two were squires, as you would call them, and the youngest of the three was a page. They spent everyday together. The years went on like this and the boys approached manhood.”

 

Stannis questioned, “Is this a fiction or do these boys have names?”

 

Tormo made a little grin. “Why yes, they have names. And this tale is true, as I know it. But their names, their names were Lannister, Targaryen, and Baratheon.”

 

_He doesn’t mean. . ._

 

“Tywin, Aerys, and my father you speak of?” asked Stannis.

 

“Just so. Lannister, the eldest, became a knight and returned to his ancestral home. But, he was unable to remain there for long. An invader came to the land. A long lost contender to the Iron Throne.”

 

King Stannis knew whom he meant, “Maelys the Monstrous with his Ninepenny Kings.”

 

Tormo Fregar nodded. “Lannister was a knight under his uncle’s command.”

 

Stannis Baratheon’s face contorted into a sneer. “Tywin’s coward father was Warden of the West, but didn’t care to stir from his whore’s bed to do his duty.”

 

Fregar didn’t argue. “Baratheon and Targaryen raised swords as squires. In the bloody affair, Baratheon’s father and Lannister’s uncle fell to Maelys Blackfyre’s greatsword. But in the end, the invaders were defeated. Much was made of the heir to the Iron Throne proving himself in battle. All watched as Ser Tywin Lannister knighted his old playmate, Prince Aerys Targaryen. Less attention was paid, however, when later the new Lord of the Stormlands was knighted with that same sword, Tywin Lannister’s.”

 

_Stannis’s father? Was knighted by Tywin?_

 

“This is not news to me,” stated the king. “I don’t care to hear any more.”

 

“Forgive me,” said Tormo, “but I must continue. These three friends, brothers in boyhood and battle, went their separate ways, as duty required. They married and sired children. Now the king in his own right, the Targaryen asked his cousin and old friend, Baratheon, to sail across the Narrow Sea and find for his heir a queen-to-be.”

 

Stannis started to grind his teeth.

 

“In the cities of Essos, we nobles are reluctant to speak highly of the Kingdom under the Iron Throne. It is too young a realm, we say. Yet in our hearts, we know how powerful it is. So when King Targaryen announced that his cousin would sail to Volantis to find a bride of Valyrian descent for the future king, all took notice.

 

“I was a lean youth then, the eldest grandchild of my family. So when by grandsire decided that he would attend the bride’s moot in Volantis, I was to accompany him. My family can trace its roots to Old Valyria.” Tormo Fregar noted, “My hair was silver before it was white. My ancestors may have fled as slaves, but in helping to found the City of Braavos we’ve been a noble family ever since. ‘Why not us?’ my grandfather thought.

 

“I was my grandfather’s swordbearer when he met your father. They spoke for only a moment. The Lord of the Storms, I thought, was a remarkably strong man. Thick of arm and leg. He was cordial to my two maiden aunts, but did not linger over them. They, like half of my kin, were brown of hair. I recall wondering why a man with hair so black would be so determined to find a silver-haired girl.

 

“After the feasting and parade of brides was over, all departed unhappy. In the head of the twenty-two year old I was then, what could be more impressive than for Lord Baratheon to look over all those irresistible maidens and deem not one good enough.

 

“On the return journey from Volantis, my keen-eyed grandfather spoke to me of what he thought of Steffon Baratheon’s search. ‘Torm,’ he called me. ‘It is no shock for a lord of the Seven Kingdoms to overlook a Braavosi family. The nobles of the other Free Cities overlook us often. But to find no suitable bride among, mayhaps, the finest showcase of maidens ever assembled? Not possible. The Stormlord could have found _fifty_ brides to fit any criteria his royal cousin demanded.’ My grandfather saw one, lone explanation: the search was a ruse. He told me, ‘Lord Baratheon never intended to select _any_ of the brides presented him. He has another maiden in mind.’

 

“My grandfather could offer no guess at whom that bride was. With the benefit of looking backward, I believe I have the answer that alluded him: Cersei Lannister.”

 

“What?”

 

Tormo Fregar explained, “I believe that Steffon Baratheon crossed the Narrow Sea to humor his king, but instead meant to arrange the marriage of the children of his two dearest friends.”

 

_Cersei and Rhaegar?_

 

“A strange thing how entwined the lives of those three friends were. More so, the lives of their children. Aerys’ boy stole the bride of Steffon’s boy. Steffon’s son later killed Aerys’ son, and Tywin’s son slayed Aerys himself. And after all of that, Steffon’s eldest married Tywin’s daughter, whom Steffon had intended all along for Aerys’ elder son.

 

“King Stannis, if your father had lived just one year longer, Rhaegar Targaryen marries Cersei Lannister. Mayhaps then, he never steals Robert’s betrothed and the Targaryen dynasty is never overthrown.”

 

The king’s face was a mix of contemplation and anger. Davos didn’t know what reaction to expect.

 

After a minute, Stannis looked up from the blackstone desk. His lip twitched into a curl for a moment, then his expression returned to iron. “None of that matters in the least. The past is done. Everyone in your little story is dead, save for me and Cersei Lannister, and soon enough I shall hang her for her treasons.”

 

Seaworth was pleased to hear that from Stannis. _Regret doesn’t suit you, my king._

 

Keyholder Fregar said humbly, “Your Grace, the gods and the seas delight in spoiling the plans of men. Your father’s plan would have saved the Targaryens from themselves. It was without flaw. Yet, the gods smashed it asunder. Your plan for Rosby and the other castles would seem no less wise, King Baratheon. For you and for our illustrious bank to succeed, we must not presume kindness from the gods. As your ardent friend, I counsel you to take these days to ponder secondary routes for every step of the course ahead, should the gods prove true to their nature.”

 

Davos touched his notch of dragonclaw for luck. 

 

“If you’re quite finished with your storytelling,” King Stannis said, not hiding his anger. “I will see to my men and my ships.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the readers who edited this chapter for me: War, Schraeder, Hashasheen, Knox, and Jess.


	82. Benjen - Duty First

Lord Commander Benjen Stark walked atop the Wall with his First Ranger, Ser Theomar Smallwood, and his master-at-arms, Ser Alliser Thorne. Jeor Mormont always held such meetings in his solar, as most lords of Westeros would. Benjen, however, was still a ranger at heart.

 

Smallwood reported, “Ben, I followed your orders yesterday: my party left at dawn and returned before sundown.”

 

“And all your men returned?”

 

“Yes, but we can ride only so far under those orders. If we must be back by nightfall, how can we hope to track and kill any of those bloody bastards?”

 

Stark didn’t like holding back his rangers when an enemy of the Watch was out there, but every overnight scout had gone missing. He told Smallwood, “Bowen Marsh would have me seal up the tunnels and let none go below.”

 

“My lord, you wouldn’t.”

 

“Of course not. The day I seek advice from Marsh about ranging is the day I seek Donal Noye’s advice about clapping.”

 

Theo chuckled, and Alliser made a sour grin.

 

“But we must take care,” he resumed. “I will not see more of our brothers turned to thralls for the enemy.”

 

While the Others kept their distance from the Wall, their dead slaves were not as hesitant. Every night, they approached the gates, and every night, they were put down with arrows and fire.

 

“How full was the Ice Inn, last night?”

 

Theomar smiled. “Only three travelers, my lord. The men saw to their warmth.”

 

Ser Alliser objected, “Corpses come to life is no fit topic for jests!”

 

“Any word from Eastwatch?” Ben asked Ser Theomar, moving the discussion along.

 

“Cotter Pyke has no lack for squires, my lord.”

 

“ _Frey_ squires.” Benjen clenched his teeth. He had been overjoyed at hearing of Jon Snow’s revenge against Lord Frey, and he appreciated his nephew sending Frey youths to the Night’s Watch. “We need those boys and men,” he conceded. “But I’d prefer to strangle any of that lot, than trust ‘em at Castle Black.” Stark took a breath and looked from Theomar to Alliser. “That remark was for your ears, no one else’s. Aye?”

 

“Yes, my lord,” the knights said together.

 

“A man’s crimes are forgotten when he takes the black,” Stark recited to himself.

 

For a moment, he focused on the sound of his boots pressing into the gravel and ice. As odd a structure as the Wall was, Benjen had discovered that a man could grow accustomed to it with enough time. He looked out at the leagues of forest, hundreds of feet below.

 

Lord Stark asked, “Thorne, what would you counsel?”

 

“The master-at-arms trains the men. It’s for the lord commander to lead the Watch - or have you forgotten?”

 

“Is that resentment I hear?” responded Benjen. “Don’t tell me you begrudge me my selection?”

 

Theo mocked, “Were you one of the fools who voted for Three-finger Hobb?”

 

Thorne fumed. “I didn’t vote for the cook, you bloody half-wit.”

 

“Alliser,” Stark said, turning around to face him. “It’s me who’s asking for your counsel. Me, not the title.”

 

His scowl relaxed. “The clansmen arrangement for the ruined forts, it’s going better than by any right it should. And if Ser Theomar’s right that we’re seeing fewer wights-”

 

“I can bloody count, Alliser.”

 

 _“If you’re right,”_ he continued. “Then why’s it happening? The wights are mindless, but their ice demon masters are not.”

 

Benjen questioned, “Theo?”

 

Smallwood shook his head. “They could be waiting, or amassing more corpses, or readying to strike at some weak point along the Wall. Who can say.”

 

The lord commander furrowed his brow. “That’ll be all for now,” he told them.

 

Theomar and Alliser nodded and headed back towards the winch cage. Then, Smallwood stopped. “You coming, Ben?”

 

He shook his head. “I’d just like some time on the Wall.”

 

Ser Alliser grumbled, “If you mean to jump, tell us now.” Smallwood shoved him, but Alliser finished, “If we don’t prepare, those whoresons in the mess hall might actually replace him with a cook.”

 

Thorne’s sour mood made Benjen smile, as it so often did. “Just for you, ser, I’ll deprive them of that pleasure.”

 

When Lord Stark returned to his quarters, one of the young stewards was waiting outside his door. _Satin, the other boys call this one._ He didn’t look like much of a fighter, but with a bow and a shortsword, he’d distinguished himself during the Wrong Way Raid, the Thenns’ surprise attack from south of the Wall that claimed dozens of their brothers. Satin was now serving as a message runner between the Watch and the guests in King’s Tower.

 

“M’lord, King Stannis’s lady sent me for you.”

 

Benjen groaned. “His lady sent you? Or his queen?”

 

“Both.”

 

“I’ll see them once I’m ready,” he said, opening the door. Before Stark could step inside, he and Satin heard a hurried rumble on the stairs below them. Nearly a minute later, they saw Samwell Tarly emerge. He was red-faced and struggled to catch his breath.

 

“Satin, you’re dismissed. Samwell, come inside.”

 

Benjen sat behind his writing desk, and Tarly filled the seat in front of it. The lord commander poured two mugs of wine. “Samwell Tarly, leal steward of the Night’s Watch.”

 

“My. . . my lord, not to correct. . . to correct you. . .”

 

Stark raised a hand to quiet the boy’s muttering. “I know that you’re still in training, but you shall complete it in time.”

 

Tarly had another black eye and was short several teeth since arriving from Horn Hill.

 

“I see that Thorne is still grinding you through the cider press, aye?”

 

“Yes, my lord. I, I. . .”

 

“Out with it, Tarly.”

 

The boy held tight to his wine cup, but didn’t drink from it. “I think he means to. . . _to kill me,_ my lord. I don’t. . . don’t know if I can survive another circuit of training, my lord.”

 

“The day will come when the Night’s Watch will have need of your sword-hand or bow arm, Samwell Tarly.”

 

He protested, “I’ll never be any good. How can I get better, if every day I just lose?”

 

“No, boy. You do not lose in the yard. Daeron the Singer and the one you all call, _Toad,_ they lost on nearly every day of their training. Yet, I passed them. You, on the other hand, simply give up.

 

“ _Samwell,_ ” he stressed, “You’re right that you might never become good with a sword - though I’ve seen stranger things in my years since taking the black. Let me be more precise. The day will come when the Night’s Watch will need your courage. On that day, your brothers will need you to brave a storm of arrows to bring our bowmen a fresh quarrel, or to keep a steady hand and clear mind while you stitch up a wound.

 

“Neither Alliser Thorne nor I are waiting for you to starting _winning_ your bouts in the yard. No, we’re waiting to see you to start _losing_ those bouts. Losing properly. I need to see that when your fear mounts within you, that you will keep swinging, keep fighting back. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, lord commander,” Tarly replied sheepishly.

 

Benjen sighed. “Trust Ser Alliser’s judgment. Keep fighting, no matter your bruises or your fears. He won’t allow you to come to permanent harm.” He saw doubt lingering on Tarly’s round face. “Samwell, you think I don’t understand what it’s like to train under Ser Alliser Thorne? Hmm? As lord commander, how could it?”

 

He answered his own question, “I wasn’t always a commander or even a ranger, just as I wasn’t always a man grown. At five-and-ten, I took the black. It was just after King Robert’s victory over the Targaryens. We had a Dornish lord commander back then. When I went through the training you now endure, I crossed swords with one hardened knight in particular. He was five-and-thirty, exactly twenty years my elder.”

 

“Ser Alliser Thorne, my lord?”

 

He smirked. “I was building to that, but yes. I thought he hated me. He seemed cruel, unnecessarily so. I was still very much a boy, though I didn’t think so then. No matter how hard I fought in training, nothing I did could win Thorne’s respect.

 

“I was my father’s youngest,” he said with a shrug. “We younger sons. . . it is in our nature to fight and claw for a place at the table.”

 

Tarly asked, “So how did you change Ser Alliser’s mind?”

 

“Never did.” Benjen smiled at Samwell’s confusion. “Alliser Thorne never cared how well I fought.” He stopped to correct himself, “He _did_ care about that, but it wasn’t the reason for his treatment of me. He saw me as a spoiled lordling who had no place swearing away his life.”

 

He tried to put his thoughts into words. After several seconds, he recounted, “Alliser’s father had come to King’s Landing dreaming of joining the Kingsguard, like his distant relative had, centuries earlier. He was forced to settle for a golden cloak in place of a white one. Ser Alliser was pushed to succeed where his father had failed. He made his way as a knight in the Mad King’s court, no small achievement. Alas, his cloak was no more white than his father’s.

 

“When Tywin Lannister pillaged King’s Landing, he forced Alliser to either take the black or hang. As a condemned man, Thorne had no option to leave the Watch. Eighteen years ago, I did have that option.

 

“His jibes, his sneering, all of it. . . He was trying to warn me, in his own fashion. I was a vain, stupid child in Alliser’s eyes. A child who should have tucked tail and gone home. Of course, it wasn’t in him to come out with such words.” Ben gave Sam a look. “Thorne isn’t one for heartfelt speeches.”

 

Benjen thought back to the day he became a man of the Night’s Watch. “Tarly,” he stated, shifting his tone. “Eight-and-ten years ago, I was shoulder to shoulder between Ser Jaremy Rykker, and yes, Ser Alliser Thorne, when we knelt and said the words. Wights killed Ser Jaremy. So, me and Thorne, plus Theo Smallwood and Jarmen Buckwell, are all that remains of the score of recruits who said our vows together, brave men and boys all.

 

“Lord Commander Qorgyle named me to the _stewards_ and took me as his squire. I remained a steward until the Old Bear sent me to the rangers five years later. When the Black Scorpion declared me a steward, I was shattered. ‘A washerwoman more like,’ I thought when I heard it. Ser Alliser saw me and grinned ear to ear.” Benjen raised his brow. “You know that smile of his.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Wily as he was, Thorne saw what the selection meant, whereas I could not. I was filled with angst, first over my appointment and doubly that Ser Alliser was pleased at my misfortune. I thought it a rebuke of all my efforts to gain his respect.

 

“Alliser wasn’t smiling at my misfortune, of course. He was amused that I was, at that very moment, proving him correct about everything he ever said about me: _A spoiled lordling who don’t know how good a life he got._ Samwell, I was pouting over receiving _the best possible posting in the whole of the Watch!_ Alliser Thorne was irritated by me, because in my youth, I could be irritating.

 

“In the years since, there’s been recruits Thorne despises, aye. Cowardice, disrespect, and the like can turn the man against you. But within most of his bluster, you will find a generous helping of prudent advice.

 

“Tarly, my years in the Night’s Watch have taught me that the best counsel a man receives is rarely worded kindly. More often, good advice begins, ‘You stupid shit.’ As in, ‘You stupid shit, don’t walk behind that kicking mule! You stupid shit, put on your cloak or your cock will freeze and fall off!’ Ignore the bluster, hear the wisdom.”

 

“I think I understand, my lord.”

 

“Very good. Is that what brought you?” asked Benjen. “Or was there something else?”

 

“Oh!” Tarly exclaimed, then shot out of his chair. “Maester Aemon seeks an audience, my lord. He’s waiting for you.”

 

“Where?”

 

“The rookery, my lord.”

 

“I won’t leave the old maester waiting,” he remarked, pleased that he could put off speaking to Selyse Baratheon. “Tarly, run and tell Satin that I’ll be a while longer.”

 

The squawking birds announced Benjen’s approach.

 

The maester’s personal steward was with him, and held the door for the lord commander. Maester Aemon beckoned for Clydas to hand him a raven’s scroll then said, “Thank you for your help. That is all for now.”

 

Once they were alone, Benjen asked, “Dark wings, dark words?”

 

“That is what I am here to learn, my lord. We have two letters from Shadow Tower. One personal and one on the business of the Night’s Watch.”

 

“The Watch comes first, maester.”

 

“Well said.” He extended a delicate hand, and Benjen took the first letter. Aemon didn’t give him the time to read it, offering, “Ser Denys reports dozens of corpses washing ashore near Shadow Tower. He writes that he is confident they are Ironborn.”

 

“A shipwreck?”

 

Aemon’s lips curved into a humble smile. “You and Commander Mallister think alike, my lord. His letter recounts a similar first reaction on the matter. A shipwreck is not like to be the cause, however; no wreckage was found with the bodies. Next, he suspected a battle on the shores of Bear Island, but Qhorin Halfhand put down that idea because of the direction of the tides. The Bay of Ice flows in the opposite direction. Thus, for the dead to wash where they did, they would have entered the seas _north_ of Shadow Tower.”

 

“Beyond the Wall?” he questioned. “Was Mallister sure they were ironmen, not wildlings.”

 

“Sure indeed.”

 

Benjen didn’t know what to make of this news.

 

Aemon didn’t know either. “Quite strange, my lord. Ser Denys will write again when he knows more.” The maester presented the second letter and asked Benjen to read this one before they continued.

  


_Sometimes the gods deign for the Cruel to come before the Wise, during the time of red stars. It is a truly tragic day, though, when the Young dies. Nonetheless, one can be certain that the Pup will follow._

 

_Ensigned, the She-bear and the Green Squire._

  


Benjen nodded for him to explain, waited for a moment, then had to say, “Please Maester Aemon, what do you make of it?”

 

“The mention of _the Cruel to come before the Wise_ seems to refer to the days of kings past. The remark about red stars is a bit redundant, but makes the other words clear.” He explained, “Aenys Targaryen was the second king of Westeros, following his father, Aegon the Conqueror. Rather than the son of King Aenys succeeding him, his half-brother, Maegor the Cruel became the third king. Aenys’s son, Jaehaerys the Wise, had to wait for his reign.

 

“This all occurred during an uprising of the Faith Militant, about two hundred and sixty years ago. King Maegor earned his moniker in large part because of the bounty he put on the head of every Poor Fellow, who marked themselves with _red stars_ back then.”

 

 _Maegor instead of Jaehaerys,_ wondered Benjen. “So. . . you could otherwise describe all of that as a Targaryen uncle inheriting what was to be his nephew’s crown?”

 

The old maester nodded. “As for the signatures, _the She-bear._ . . that is likely Lord Commander Mormont’s sister. But the other title?” He shook his head.

 

“Aye, Lady Maege and her daughters are the only women I know who’d call themselves that with a sense of pride. As for the _Green Squire,_ I believe I know that one. You see, my sister and I called Lord Howland Reed, _‘The Green Squire.’_ Just as he used to call me _the Wolf Pup,_ as the youngest of my siblings. That was back when we were all children.”

 

_Back at. . . fucking Harrenhal._

 

“Aemon, I think the Targaryen portion of this riddle was meant for you. The Old Bear’s sister is likely the only lady in all of Westeros who knows the Watch well enough to know the House of your birth. Within the context of the Targaryen introduction, the Stark half seems to say, ‘The Wolf Pup, a Stark uncle, will gain the crown of his nephew, the Young Wolf.”

 

“You are your nephew’s heir,” the maester said knowingly. “Robb Stark wanted you to take up his crown.”

 

Benjen had to chuckle. “You suspected that straight off, didn’t you?”

 

The wise, old man avoided the question. “My lord, what do you intend to do with this knowledge?”

 

“What can I do?” Benjen lamented.

 

_Winterfell was supposed to be Brandon’s, before Lya caught Rhaegar’s insatiable eye at the Harrenhal tourney. Harrenhal, it all goes back to bloody Harrenhal._

 

“When Aegon the Conqueror burned Harren the Black in his monstrous castle,” said Stark, “that slaving tyrant’s younger brother was the lord commander. He might’ve marched the Night’s Watch against King Aegon, demanding vengeance. If the brother of Harren the Black had enough honor to keep to his vows, how can I do any less?”

 

Benjen looked at the man who’d spent almost a century serving the Night’s Watch. “You knew that’d be my answer, didn’t you?”

 

“As you say, my lord.”

 

“This message must be late in arriving. Howland and Lady Mormont wouldn’t rise against Ned’s daughter, not after she and Jon took back Winterfell. If I received this before then, maester, I might’ve surprised you.”

 

_If I had, mayhaps King Stannis finds in me his Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. Denying Stannis’s offer was easy. But if I received a last request from Ned’s boy? Who knows how I would’ve responded to Stannis then. . . Does any man in the Seven Kingdoms have worse luck than Stannis Baratheon?_

 

“Aemon, with my niece and nephew in their rightful place, the North has no need of _this Stark_ anywhere but where I currently sit. Tell me, though, what do you make of the dragon-rumors involving my nephew? Jon wouldn’t lie to me about having a dragon.”

 

“Who would lie about such a thing?”

 

“I would hear your thoughts on the dragon,” Benjen replied.

 

“My thoughts might be no more than the musing of a blind, old man.”

 

“Nevertheless,” he said more firmly.

 

“Does your brother’s natural son know where the dragon came from?”

 

“Jon’s raven said that when he was across the Narrow Sea, he saw three hatchling dragons belonging to Daenerys Targaryen. One of the three broke loose and chased after him, more or less.”

 

“Ah, yes. The daughter born to Aerys after his death. . .” Aemon spoke slowly, “In years gone by, kings and princes of the royal lineage searched for a boy among them to become a foretold champion, _the Prince Who Was Promised._ Rhaegar believed he was such a champion. He wasn’t the first to think so, but men believed he fit the prophecy better than any of his predecessors. His fall at the Trident proved otherwise.

 

“Men hear tales predicting an illustrious hero and soon distort the prophesy that they might fit within it.” Maester Aemon pointed a wrinkled finger at Benjen. “Back when even your grandfather was yet a boy, my elder brother thought himself something of a prophesized dragon. Aerion was mad, to be sure, and drank a cup of lit wildfyre with the hope of turning into a dragon. To wit, all he did was burn from his innards out.

 

“I shed no tears for him. But Aerion Brightflame, as he liked to call himself - _Brightflame_ , he was surely that when he induced his end. The gods enjoy a twisted sort of humor, don’t they. Aerion was a cruel boy all his life. Not so, my younger brother. Egg was kind and daring. A better brother or king, you couldn’t ask for.”

 

Benjen said, “My father taught me that Aegon the Unlikely nearly bankrupted the crown trying to keep us Northmen from starving.”

 

Aemon smiled a little. “It was a harsh winter, to be sure. I was not long on the Wall, back then. I recall that your father was born during that winter. The North rejoiced at your grandsire’s first and only child.”

 

The maester stopped to ask, “My lord, my lord. What were we discussing?”

 

Stark replied, “My nephew, his dragon, and princes.”

 

“Ah, yes,” he said, all caught up. “Prince Rhaegar and I corresponded over a prophecy he read, one written during the early years of Dragonstone. It was granted new life by my nephew, Prince Duncan the Small, when a woods witch from the Riverlands foretold of something very similar. A dying star, hatching dragons out of stone. . . If your nephew’s dragon came from Princess Daenerys, that would mean. . .”

 

“What would it mean, Aemon?”

 

He replied, “It means Egg, Duncan, and Rhaegar were looking for the wrong child. A daughter _, a princess,_ not a prince.”

 

“Do you believe in this? What is the princess supposed to do?”

 

“A champion shall wake the dragons from the stone. He shall unsheath a red sword and wield it against the darkness.”

 

“Sounds familiar,” Ben remarked.

 

Aemon understood him and let out a single, soft laugh. “As for King Stannis. . . Lady Melisandre believes he is a great hero reborn, mayhaps from a similar legend. Targaryens aren’t the only fortune tellers in this world,” the old man suggested, smiling. “Melisandre clutches tight to the prophesized characteristics that her king fits and ignores the ones he fails. His mighty, flaming sword? It is no more than an illusion to deceive all who see it.”

 

“How can you know that?” asked Benjen, curious.

 

“My eyes are useless, but my wits still serve me. My lord, the alleged _Lightbringer_ gave off no heat. That is mayhaps the most well-known part of the legend of which the priestess subscribes. Stannis Baratheon is many things - even a hero in his own right -  but he is not the hero Melissandre wishes he was. It is why she conjures so many deceptions.”

 

“If the red woman is wrong about Stannis as our savior and with your great-great-great-niece across the sea,” Benjen said with a wry grin. “Then, how shall we ever survive?”

 

Aemon tilted his head, aiming his face at Benjen. “Mayhaps _another hero_ will emerge. Or instead, the Night’s Watch will need fight its battles with men in place of legends.”

 

“Aye, that sounds more like the Watch I’m used to.”

 

* * *

 

Lord Commander Benjen Stark summoned all of his patience before ascending the stairs to King’s Tower. Stannis Baratheon’s queen possessed the keen ability to infuriate him like no one else.

 

At the top, a pair of boys too young to grow whiskers shivered. Stark told them, “No man of mine will attack you. You both can safely lean your spears against your shoulders and tuck your hands in your armpits.”

 

They looked at him skeptically.

 

“How well will you guard your queen after frostbite takes your fingers?” More softly, he said, “If you were black brothers, I would tell you the same. Keep your fingers warm and _listen_ for anyone coming up the steps, men.”

 

“Yes, lord commander,” replied one of them. He shoved his hands in his pits.

 

The other boy resisted the advice and kept his hands on his spear. Benjen smiled at the gesture of youthful defiance. But after he stepped inside the doorway, he heard the tap of a spear being laid against the exterior wall.

 

The high chamber was dark under normal circumstances; the small, lead-glass windows admitted little daylight. Those windows were now shrouded with blankets. The red glow from the hearthfire was the only light.

 

“Queen Selyse,” he called, though he couldn’t see anyone in the darkness. “It is the lord commander.” Benjen’s eyes began to adjust, and he saw two high-backed chairs pushed only inches from the fire.

 

A figure cloaked in layers of furs bent out of one seat. “By tradition, a man kneels to his queen.”

 

“Your Grace, the Night’s Watch takes no part in the affairs of the realm. Its lord commander bends his knee to no one.”

 

From behind him, Benjen heard a second voice, “How like a child you sound. . .”

 

_The red woman._

 

She touched his arm as she passed. Melisandre of Asshai had an unnatural allure. Benjen did not mistake her effect on the queen’s men or the black brothers.

 

“My lady,” he replied to her. “It is time for the queen and princess to depart for Winterfell.”

 

“I will not be ordered about by the likes of you.”

 

He sighed. “Your Grace, the orders came from your husband, written in his hand, as you well know.”

 

“My place is here,” she said, looking to Melisandre.

 

Benjen looked to her as well. “What does your _Lord of Light_ say of this?”

 

“Do not mock the one, true god.”

 

“I wasn’t,” Benjen lied. “Does Lord R’hllor wish for the queen to stay amongst us wildmen of the Wall?”

 

The priestess replied, “Still you mock, but even the blind stumble in the right direction on occasion.”

 

Selyse Baratheon threw off her blankets and fell to her knees before Melisandre. “Please, you cannot send me away. I couldn’t bear it.”

 

Benjen held his tongue.

 

“I would keep you here if I could,” assured the red witch. “The Lord’s Chosen wishes for you and your child to be safe at Castle Winterfell.”

 

“Do not send me to the heathens and unbelievers.”

 

Melisandre said, “They cling to their ignorant ways when, like all of Westeros, they should fall to their knees in gratitude for god’s saviour. In time, they will see that King Stannis is all that can stop death from consuming the world. The true battle will be between life and death, between light and darkness. All tools of the Great Other shall burn.”

 

Benjen knew she was referring to burning her enemies alive, but he thought of his family’s holy weirwood. _The red god’s followers would happily ignite it as a nightfire and chant at the flames._ Ben Stark could still remember chasing his sister around the heart tree when they were little and the world was simple. _I could never catch her, she was always faster._ He recalled his brother, Ned, leading him past the bubbling hot springs so they could secretly watch their father tending his sword.

 

_Ice._

 

Benjen wondered what became of it. _Ned brought it with him when he left with King Robert. Did any of Ned’s men carry it back to Robb?_

 

He returned his focus to the would-be queen and the red woman. “I know the battle you speak of, my ladies. I know of the creatures in the night, the ones who killed Lord Commander Mormont.

 

“Sansa Stark is now the Queen in the North, as any Northman will tell you. Stannis’s raven said he consented to that and to putting you under her care. Abide your king’s choices.”

 

Selyse pleaded to her priestess, “You said no one’s safe. If we fail, all children shall perish.”

 

“His Grace shall triumph, as Azor Ahai did in his first life. Recall what I taught you of R’hllor’s first champion. His followers, all hardened warriors, perished defeating the darkness. You must not be here when the true battle begins.”

 

“But there is power in king’s blood,” the queen stated. “You said that, you said so.”

 

Melisandre offered Selyse a hand to help her rise. She grasped it, but wouldn’t stand up off the floor.

 

Benjen argued against this absurdity, “Forget the danger to all other children. Leave that to _their_ mothers. Be a mother to your own child and get her to Winterfell.”

 

The pile of furs in the second seat by the hearth stirred for the first time. Selyse Baratheon flinched - as if she’d forgotten her daughter was there. The girl was a frail, little thing. As she slid from the wood-and-hide chair, she kept one blanket on her. She wore it like a hood and dragged it behind her.

 

Quietly, Stark said, “Forgive me, child. I did not know you were present. Otherwise, I would not have spoken of you as if you weren’t.”

 

Shireen Baratheon didn’t know what to say. Neither did her mother.

 

“Princess,” resumed Benjen. “We received a raven from Winterfell, from your father. He wants for you to go there and be safe. Do you understand?”

 

“I can see him?” Her voice brightened with fragile hope.

 

“Forgive me once more, sweetling. The letter said he would be moving on to continue his war.”

 

She was crestfallen, but replied, “Duty first.”

 

_A daughter so frail shouldn’t be asked to be so strong._

 

“Your lord father helped my kin take back Winterfell. It is colder than the South, but warmer than the Wall. King Stannis thinks it will be best for you and your mother. I spent my boyhood days there. I agree with your father.”

 

Her mother finally got up from kneeling at Melisandre’s feet. She didn’t go to Shireen. “His Grace has decided,” the queen said without emotion. “He knows best.”

 

“So you are coming too,” stated the little girl, not risking the rejection of asking for her mother to accompany her.

 

“I will be where the Lord of Light requires me.”

 

Lord Stark breathed a sigh of relief. _To where your god requires you, and away from me._

 

The next morning, Lord Commander Stark was preparing a letter to Queen Sansa to alert her that the Baratheon mother and daughter would be leaving for Winterfell. He heard a knock on the door and watched Sweet Donnel Hill enter without permission. The youth was confident to the point of arrogance, but well suited to his job. Hill had previously squired at Castle Black for Ser Mallador Locke, until the night the Magnar of the Thenns killed him.

 

Donnel’s boyish face and golden hair had earned him his moniker, and the young man claimed his mane grew from his drop of Lannister blood. “Sweet is not a thing a man of the Night’s Watch should be, much less for one who might someday lead,” Benjen had said when he took the boy as his squire. “Don’t protest the name, they’ll only take that as encouragement. Prove them wrong. I shall aid you in that. You are hereby commanded to grow a beard.”

 

Donnel had laughed at that, insisting to he could grow nothing more than a fine fuzz.

 

Stark returned then, “In that case, you may grow your hair no longer than whatever mustache you can muster.” The young man had been dismayed.

 

The look on his face was much the same today. Donnel said, “My lord, we have a problem needs solving. The queen’s causing a stir.”

 

Benjen held his tongue and assured himself, _One last day with her, then she’ll be Sansa’s problem. May the gods grant Ned’s girl patience._

 

Down in the courtyard of Castle Black, he saw that the queen’s men were beginning to _remove_ the provisions for their journey to Winterfell.

 

Outlaw Ulmer caught up to the lord commander and reported on the previous night’s patrol of the Wall. “Wandering wights was all, and only a few. Wasn’t none o’ their masters around.”

 

Benjen’s attention was on the queen’s knights, but was pleased to hear the report. He proceeded through the crowd milling about.

 

Theo Smallwood called to him, “Ben- My lord, she’s not going.”

 

“Not going?” Benjen questioned as he stepped beside him.

 

“So the queen says,” Smallwood insisted.

 

Stark turned his attention to the disheveled queen. Next to the wagons, she was engrossed in issuing orders to her knights. “You,” she addressed the lord commander. “Tell your men to obey me. They are failing in the duty.”

 

“And what would you have them do, my lady?”

 

“R’hllor’s followers must be here that we may pray for his victory in the battle for the dawn. The Lord of Light compels me to stay.”

 

Ser Theomar called to her, “Do you mean to take the black, Your Grace?”

 

Jeers spread through the ranks of black brothers.

 

“Such an insubordinate tongue! Would you disobey your rightful queen?!” She adjusted her brown and grey hair. “I should have you flogged. Insolence must be dealt with, His Grace would tell you.”

 

 _Stannis would know better,_ thought Benjen. For all his intolerable stubbornness, the aspiring king understood that an assault on the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch would lead to a battle with all his sworn brothers.

 

“I should take some of your castles, at least, for your traitorous tongue.”

 

Smallwood hollered, “If your men wish to inhabit any of the Watch’s castles, they need only say the words. Instruct your knights to ask any man in black - each of us can tell ‘em how the oath goes.”

 

Lord Stark stepped in front of the ranger. “We owe your husband a great debt. He came to our call when no one else would. His raven asked me to send his daughter and lady wife to Winterfell. I will not fail to honor that request.”

 

Still furious at Theomar, Selyse declared, “My place is with god’s priestess.”

 

_Then take her with you, you tiresome crone._

 

Stannis Baratheon, in his letter from Winterfell, also asked Benjen to allow Melisandre to stay at Castle Black. Stark didn’t like her presence. She blended in with the Watch as well as a thorn inside a boot. Nonetheless, the red woman had proven her powers against Mance Rayder’s skinchangers. Benjen did not discount her usefulness in a future fight against the dark magic of the Others.

 

On the matter that morning, red witch agreed with Benjen. She said to Selyse, “Your place is where your king requires you.”

 

The queen pleaded to Melisandre, “The king’s raven mentioned me, yes, but I shall stay beside you. And mayhaps you can show me more of god’s visions in the flames. Oh, please show me again. Let us look together. Let us see King Stannis sitting upon the Iron Throne with his crown of gold and fire.”

 

One of her knights echoed, “Gold and fire!”

 

Several others recited, “The night is dark and full of terrors!”

 

 _She and her lot are well and truly mad._ Benjen stuck out his jaw. _The girl is better off raised by Sansa and Jon, without suffering to see her mother’s madness._

 

Melisandre began employing phrases from the red god’s chants, but Queen Selyse, who hung on the red woman’s every word, was deaf to her in this single instance. Benjen moved to Melisandre’s side and put a hand on her arm to ask for quiet. With a formal air, he addressed Selyse Baratheon, “Very well, Your Grace. You shall stay in the King’s Tower, but the princess shall leave at once.”

 

Her eyes went wide.

 

_Stannis, you stubborn sot, you saved the Watch when the rest of the realm refused our call. My niece and nephews will provide your daughter the family she’s lacked all her life. They can teach her and care for her such as your wife never will. I can give you no better gift than sparing your girl another day surrounded by fire-worshipping zealots, her mother chief among them._

 

Benjen Stark had no desire to send any of the queen’s fanatics to his niece, and a selfish notion arose in his mind. _Winterfell,_ he told himself. Benjen knew how long the odds were for him to survive this winter. He wanted desperately to be the one to escort Shireen Baratheon, if only to see his home one last time.

 

_I am the sword in the darkness. . . the shield that guards the realms of men. . ._

 

“Alliser Throne.” He raised his voice. “Alliser Thorne, I give you the command. You shall escort Shireen Baratheon to Winterfell. Pick any three rangers. I entrust the safety of the princess to you. You have one hour to prepare.”

 

* * *

 

Queen Selyse put up no further argument over her daughter traveling to Winterfell, once she knew she could remain at the Wall with Melisandre. It confirmed to Benjen that he was making the right choice for her daughter.

 

Ser Alliser stood with Jarmen Buckwell, a senior ranger, and Outlaw Uller, a seasoned bowman. Benjen handed Thorne a letter for Queen Sansa and Bowen Marsh’s list of the provisions the Watch needed most desperately.

 

“See what my niece can spare, Alliser. We need whatever she can provide us.” He glanced at Buckwell and Uller mounting up. “I told you to take three rangers.”

 

“Have you seen the sorry lot of recruits we got?”

 

Stark didn’t want to argue, his patience had run dry. “Take Dolorous Edd. To keep the girl’s spirits up.” He hollered to his squire, “Donnel, fetch me Edd Tollett.”

 

While they waited for him, Princess Shireen came down from King’s Tower. The girl looked nothing like a princess should. Half her face was marred with greyscale scars. She would have been an ugly child even without them. Benjen hoped the girl could spend as much time as possible in the North. The Southrons he knew always seemed to blame homely women for their faces. Vanity was less frequent in the North, where frostbite so commonly took a woman’s nose or ears or lips.

 

Lord Stark offered a silent prayer that King Stannis would one day have the wisdom to find for his daughter an ugly and honorable man for her to wed. _A beautiful scoundrel will bring the girl no happiness._

 

Benjen wondered what type of goodbye her mother offered in the high chambers. He went over to the girl. “Princess,” he greeted. “Are you ready to leave?”

 

She looked unhappy, but nodded dutifully.

 

“I send you with some of the best I have. Ser Alliser and Ser Jarmen, I’ve been serving with them since I was scarcely older than you. Uller’s been a man of the Night’s Watch for even longer than us.”

 

“I have a order for you,” she declared.

 

Amused, he asked what that was.

 

“A horse for my sworn sword. He comes too.”

 

Benjen looked passed her to the boy standing several paces behind. He was no older than her. “Of course, princess. What is his name?”

 

“Devan Seaworth,” she announced.

 

“Very well.” He said to the boy, “Obey Ser Alliser and keep vigilant, my good man.”

 

Soon after, Edd joined the others, leading a garron behind him. He wasn’t eager for the journey. Benjen sent Donnel Hill back to the stables for one more horse.

 

“Are you ready for this?” Ben asked his master-at-arms.

 

Ominously, Ser Alliser responded, “Don’t let the Wall come crumbling down before I get back.”

 

“If the wights take over. . .” wondered Edd. “I suppose they’ll choose they own commander, and even corpse commanders need stewards. I doubt my duties won’t be no different. Just my luck.”

 

“Don’t mind him,” Benjen told Shireen Baratheon. “He’s dour, but loyal.” He picked her up and lifted the girl onto her pony. “Send my regards to Winterfell, princess.”

 

“I will, lord commander.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the guys and gals over at DLP for their help.
> 
>  
> 
> Feedback, criticism, and encouragement are all welcome!


	83. Jon - The Greywater Council

Ser Jon Whitewolf approached the crannogman steward and asked him to gather Lord Howland, Lady Mormont, and Galbart Glover for a brief, but vital, deliberation.

 

The four of them found the privacy of one of the two swamp-overlooks atop Greywater Watch. The wooden perch was crescent shaped and looked out over the snow-covered marshlands. Lady Maege took up a place on the stool nailed to the deck. Glover stood with his back leaning against the inner railing beside her. Jon rested his hip against the swamp-side rail, and Howland Reed paced between them. The branches from the living tree supporting the watchpost surrounded them. Looking beyond the leafless branches to the bogs all around him, Ser Jon was reminded of being aboard the _Bronze Wench_ on the Summer Sea.

 

“Like as not,” began Jon, “there’s more that I must needs tell you, than the other was ‘round. Aye, my lords. Mayhaps I know where to start.” He looked at each of them. “Galbart, your brother was riding from Winterfell to Deepwood when I flew off. Your good-sister holds your fort once more. Asha Greyjoy took your niece and nephew to the Iron Islands, but my sister is offering the Greyjoys their pick of the ironmen we captured, and will yet capture, in exchange for the children's safe return.

 

“Lady Mormont, Alysane is in Winterfell and one of your younger girls holds Bear Island.

 

“Lord Howland, your children and my brother, Bran, haven’t returned. We know they escaped from Ramsay Snow and Theon Greyjoy. There is a rumor among the clans that the children were seen well north of Winterfell - almost to the New Gift. In a letter, Lord Commander Benjen Stark assured me that the Night’s Watch will do what it can to find them.”

 

“They travel where they must,” Reed said with an odd calm to his voice. “Jojen dreamed of where he must bring Bran Stark, just as I dreamed of where you would be.”

 

Jon nodded, though he didn’t truly understand.

 

Having voiced all he knew of their kin, Ser Jon turned his attention to other matters. “With winter’s arrival, I’m loath to send men deeper north than they’re accustomed to. My lord,” he directed to Reed. “I won’t send your spears to Winterfell. The cold back at my home is far worse than in the Neck. No, the wiser direction is south. They shall march for Riverrun, my lord. Your crannogmen know secrets of rivers and swamps that other Northmen forgot long ago, and the Andals likely never knew. By the look of your bog-towns, your men are capable of raising structures in the most trying conditions. Aye?”

 

“Yes, Jon.”

 

“We will send the men to begin work on several forts.”

 

“In the Riverlands?” asked Glover.

 

“Aye. They’re Queen Sansa’s lands as much as the Wolfswood is. Protecting the Rivermen is her duty, and mine.”

 

Lord Galbart responded, “Very well, I cannot fault any of that.” He gave voice to his true worry, “Forts are well and good against men, but what of the other dragon? Can you tell us more of the Greyjoy beast?”

 

“Aye,” agreed Mormont, her attention peaked. “Think of Bear Island? Should the Greyjoys attack. . .”

 

“If they do, Viserion and I will fly out to defend your kin. Viserion is able to sense her hatch-mate over wide distances. The Stark direwolves have a similar capacity,” he explained. “The Greyjoy dragon isn’t the threat mine is, my lords.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Lord Howland, the green one. . . I heard its name once, in the City of Qarth, but I cannot remember it now. . . That dragon, its fire burned cold. It was not fire at all. My frostbite and Viserion’s were from the green dragon’s breath.”

 

“An ice dragon,” offered Reed.

 

Jon nodded. “The ice dragon’s frost can be deadly, I have no doubt of that. As painful as the it was to my skin, I don’t believe it as dangerous to our keeps and castles. Dragonfire burns timber and scorches stone. But, what harm will frost do? The North is no stranger to deathly frost, cold enough to sear flesh and chill the very air in your lungs. But if we can shelter ourselves from the worst of winters passed, what more can this ice-dragon do?”

 

Glover asked, “What of any men caught out of doors? What of our crops?”

 

“Outside, they will surely die,” he acknowledged. “As for crops, our fields won’t yield another stock until spring. And. . .” Jon took a slow breath. “And, Viserion and I, we will kill that icy beast long before winter breaks.”

 

He waited to hear a response, but Howland, Galbart, and Maege lost themselves in thought. He looked out over the swamp and wondered about his own homestead. _My hidden, little keep. How will it stand when I see it again?_ Jon didn’t know if he would wish to leave Winterfell, even after the wars and snows relented.

 

 _Halya,_ he thought. _If I stay in Winterfell to help Sansa and Rickon or move to secure the Hornwood, my holdfast could pass to Halya when she comes of age._ Jon smiled. _Bugger the need to find her a boy with a castle to inherit. If Halya has a holdfast of her own. . . she might one day marry for love._

 

The notion seemed like something Sansa would think of, but for his little girl, it felt right.

 

“Our biggest threat is to the south,” Jon resumed, getting their attention. “The Tyrells, first, but also the sellswords in the Stormlands.”

 

“What is their intent?” asked Glover.

 

He shook his head. “I don’t know, my lord.”

 

Reed suggested, “The Golden Company is once again trying to take the Iron Throne.” He glanced between Jon and Galbart. “Aren’t they?”

 

Lord Glover replied, “If they mean to kill lions and roses, who are we to stop them?”

 

“Whatever their aims, my lords, we need a show of strength along the borders of the Riverlands. Just _looking_ formidable might convince the Golden Company to stay on their side of the Blackwater.”

 

“And if Mace Tyrell prevails?” Mormont questioned.

 

“Then those same shores will serve as our battleground, my lady.”

 

Howland Reed thought aloud, “Maidenpool is sworn to Riverrun, but Randyll Tarly’s men hold it. He betrothed his son to Lord Mooton’s daughter. He won’t surrender it without a bloody siege.”

 

Jon thought for a moment, picturing a map of the Riverlands.

 

Maege offered, “The North has all the land it wants or needs. We must needs guard our borders, not expand them. Let Tarly keep Maidenpool.”

 

Galbart Glover wasn’t pleased. “I lost good men taking Maidenpool back from the Lannisters.”

 

Mormont urged, “Lord Mooton is a craven. How many times must we save his town while he cowers?”

 

The others waited for Galbart’s opinion, and the man shrugged. “Bugger the whole bloody Riverlands. Let the Southrons defend themselves, then.”

 

“If we survive this winter,” began Jon, trying to persuade Lord Glover. “We’ll have yet other winters to withstand. A properly guarded Riverlands will be a boon for the North. The Trident provides ground more fertile than the Wolfswood, the Barrowlands, or the Neck could ever hope to sow. If any of us live through this winter, the bargain we’ll be making is this: The Riverlands shall feed the North, and the North shall raise arms whenever the Rivermen need our protection.”

 

Lady Maege smiled. “A fine speech, my boy. But what of today? What of _this_ winter?”

 

“Queen Sansa and Lady Waynwood arranged for food to be brought up the Trident in exchange for the gold Yohn Royce and I took from Walder Frey’s coffers.” Jon turned to Howland Reed. “I need you to organize men to row down the Green Fork and meet the merchants Anya Waynwood sends to Castle Darry. Then, my lord, distribute our share of the provisions northward.”

 

“Aye, ser.”

 

“That’s all well and good, don’t mistake me,” directed Galbart Glover. “But we’re not finished discussing the war. What of Stannis?”

 

Jon described his meeting with the would-be king, and the others listened to every detail. He concluded by saying, “I gave him my word that I would keep secret the plans he told me, but. . . all of Winterfell heard that Stannis Baratheon would continue his campaign with hired men.”

 

“ _More_ sellswords?” Mormont scoffed. “Don’t the Stormlands have ‘nough already?”

 

“Stannis would never be satisfied with just the Stormlands. He will keep fighting for the Iron Throne. . . until it kills him.”

 

Cautiously, Howland probed, “What if he does just that?”

 

Jon glanced over. Something in Reed’s voice gave him pause.

 

Maege asked, “You mean, ‘What if Stannis _takes_ the throne?’ You think he has any chance of that?”

 

Glover, as he often did, agreed with Lady Mormont. “He cannot win. It’s an impossible fight.”

 

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted. “If he takes King’s Landing. . . it will mark yet more war, not the end of it.”

 

“If Stannis keeps fighting for every last title he thinks the gods owe him, does that mean he’ll fight for rule over the North too?”

 

Ser Jon replied, “King Stannis gave me his word. He swore that he would not invade the North, Riverlands, or Vale. I expect he’ll keep his vow, especially once his daughter arrives in Winterfell to be Sansa’s ward.”

 

Lord Glover was shocked. “He agreed to that?”

 

“Aye.”

 

Galbart asked, “Will we join his fight?”

 

“Stannis knows this pursuit is his alone. He will not expect us to lend aid.”

 

“We _should_ help him.” Maege glanced around. “Better _Stannis_ than the Lannister whelp.”

 

Howland Reed seemed ready to answer, but held his tongue.

 

Jon suggested, “That choice will fall to the Queen in the North, if we ever have to choose sides. For Viserion and I,” he said, shifting the discussion. “I’m not certain of our next destination. I would love to return to Winterfell, and mayhaps Viserion’s injured leg is reason enough for us to go where she’ll be best protected. Lord Reed, how long would you guess until the leg is healed?”

 

He thought for a moment. “When a sled dog hurts a limb, he usually needs a week to heal from the injury and _three weeks_ to heal from all the disruption he does to his splint.”

 

Jon nodded and replied, “I can make the dragon understand, if need be. She shall carry the leg however we need her to.”

 

“Good, that’s good.” Howland shrugged. “That will help, but who can guess how a dragon heals.”

 

“My lords,” offered Ser Jon. “I believe that once she’s healed, Viserion and I could kill the Ironborn dragon. Aye, we shall.”

 

Lord Glover grimaced. “That is a poor idea.” Jon asked why, and he explained, “Your she-dragon should be at the head of our army or enlisted to fly between our castles breaking every siege. Risking the North’s best weapon is pure foolishness, begging your pardon. _Brave,_ mayhaps, but foolish still. Better we risk that which we can spare.”

 

“Men, you mean. Common soldiers.”

 

Galbart stated, “I’ll honor their courage and praise their memories, but I won’t lose sleep over their deaths. Many good Northmen are already in the ground. Better that we add a thousand more, than bury the one dragon we’ve ever wielded.”

 

The strategy felt like cowardice and Jon replied, “I don’t like it, my lord.”

 

Glover smiled through his coarse, brown beard. “That’s youth talking, Ser Jon.”

 

“Your dragon cannot be everywhere at once,” said Maege. “The holds will have to learn to defend themselves no matter what transpires.”

 

“So how would we do it? How might we kill a dragon?”

 

Jon sighed. “That question twists my guts, Lord Glover. It would pain me more than I can say, the thought of Viserion dead. But were we to fight an enemy dragon. . . The best weapon would be water - either the Trident or the sea. Fling nets and chains to bring the dragon down. Entangle its wings. Weigh it down until it cannot rise above the surface. That’s the one sure way of killing a dragon.”

 

“And if there’s neither river nor sea nearby?”

 

“Entangle the dragon anyways. Force it to the ground. Use spears, slings, arrows until you slay it. That, my lords, is how you kill a dragon.”

 

The She-Bear stared at him a moment, then asked, “Jon, dear boy, what will _your_ dragon do if you die?”

 

“Bloody hells,” exclaimed Glover. “Then we’re in for it.”

 

Jon reached out with his thoughts. He felt first the ache of his broken shin. Then, he looked once more at Lady Mormont. “Viserion will be more wild without me, but not wholly different in her spirit or temperament. She sees my kin as an adopted family of sorts. I believe she would return to Winterfell and roam and fly and hunt, with the castle as her den. Viserion would no longer care one way or another on the wars of men. If enemies bring war to her home, though. . . Viserion is fond of my siblings and has a deep regard for my wife and little girl.” Jon nodded to himself. “Aye, she would take to the sky for my daughter, especially. For the bond between the dragon and I, if for nothing else.” To Galbart, he compared, “Much like how you might be a shield for Lady Mormont’s daughters, if she died in battle.”

 

Howland, soft and solemn, asked, “What if the Targaryen princess crosses the Narrow Sea?”

 

Jon didn’t have an answer. _What would Viserion do if forced to choose between me and Daenerys Targaryen? Would Viserion defend Winterfell from her black-scaled brother?_ “I cannot say, my lord.”

 

Reed nodded, as if he knew that would be Jon’s answer.

 

They continued to speak until they settled on a course for each of them. Maege agreed to march one thousand crannogmen to the Riverlands and begin the rebuilding and defense of their kingdom’s southern border. Howland would escort her as far as Darry, then wait for the provisions to feed the North. Glover’s task was to march North with one hundred of the trained up, crannog spearmen. His duty was to organize the Northmen along the shore of the Sunset Sea against the danger of the ice dragon.

 

“And what of you and our dragon, my boy?” asked the She-Bear.

 

“We’ll linger here for a fortnight. Viserion needs time to begin to heal. Then, if she can manage it, we should take a measure of how the Riverlands stand. I don’t even know where Greatjon Umber and Bronze Yohn are with our host of Valemen. Darry? Elsewhere?”

 

“Fine, but be quick about it,” urged Lord Glover. “Once you’re finished, fly north. The bloody squids are treacherous. We must needs be ready to kill them.”

 

“We shall be ready this time, my lord.”

 

Jon knew these plans had their pitfalls. Preparing against an ice dragon was flawed at best and futile at worst. He wondered if his long-held plan to defend the banks of the Blackwater could do anything against the might of Highgarden, should Mace Tyrell turn his attention to the Riverlands. Jon couldn’t even say with confidence whether Bronze Yohn and Lady Waynwood had been successful in buying food and fodder with Frey gold.

 

“These are the best courses,” assured Howland Reed, correctly guessing at Jon’s worry. “We can only aim the bow, the winds shall push the arrow where they will. So long as we aim true, we can only hope, my young friend.”

  



	84. Sansa - The Queen in Winterfell

In her Great Hall, Queen Sansa Stark was surrounded by bannermen and allies. But as she watched her little brother, she felt utterly out of place at her own table.

 

Lady Lydrea Hornwood leaned across Rickon to cut his meat. The boy insisted that he didn’t need her help. Lydrea told him, “I’ll return your knife, little brother. So long as you let me. . . There, see? Little bites. All ready.”

 

When his good-sister returned the cutlery, he grinned. Abandoning his fork, Rickon stabbed the bits of meat and ate off his knife.

 

“Stop!” Osha warned suddenly. The wildling caretaker caught hold of Sansa’s niece, Halya, by the wrist. “Little battler,” she said to Rickon, “careful you don’t stab your cousin.”

 

The boy complained, “She’s thieving at my plate.”

 

Lydrea tapped him on the shoulder. “And she’s too little to know better. You are big enough to know better, aren’t you? Rickon, you’re her elder. That makes it your duty to protect her.”

 

He hesitated to answer.

 

“What would Ser Jon think of this?”

 

Rickon lifted away his knife. He let Halya pick out two pieces of meat, one for each direwolf. She dropped Shaggy’s on the floor, and Ghost delicately took his from between her thumb and forefinger.

 

Sansa watched the four of them. Lydrea, Rickon, Osha, and Halya seemed nearly an intact family, missing only Jon. _I’m sitting right here and it’s like I’m as distant as him._

 

In the weeks since he and Viserion flew for Lannisport, his absence had been pushing Sansa yet further from her kin. Lydrea’s outburst weeks earlier, when Sansa first announced she was sending Jon on the attack, was only the first of the signs. _Rickon won’t speak to me. Lydrea purposefully avoids me. Even Ghost. . ._

 

The direwolf’s disposition toward Sansa was especially odd. When Jon and Viserion had left the Vale with Bronze Yohn, Ghost was under her care. He was her constant companion and often slept atop her sheets. Now, he clung to Halya.

 

 _Little Halya is the only one who still engages with me._ That had surprised Sansa. She assumed that Lydrea would bar their interaction over her sending Jon into danger. As yet, the young lady of the Hornwood still allowed her daughter to spend hours on end with Sansa. Fearing that mentioning it might upset that precious concession, Sansa did not ask her about it.

 

With the oaken tabletop between them, the queen watched her kin get on without her.

 

After the supper, Ser Marwyn Belmore and Ser Symond Templeton approached her. They begged an audience, and she led them to her father’s solar.

 

“Your Grace, the Sistermen are restless,” said the Knight of Ninestars.

 

Belmore nodded. “We can keep them here for only so long.”

 

“What do you mean?” she asked.

 

They exchanged a glance between them, then Templeton explained, “They want to go home. They came here out of honor and duty-”

 

“And ambition,” added Marwyn.

 

“And ambition,” Symond agreed.

 

Sansa replied, “You both know how uncertain matters are right now. How can I send away any soldiers?”

 

“They won’t stay forever.” Ser Symon pinched his chin-beard. “Us two are patient, but we don’t speak for everyone. Most of my men I sent with the Blackfish. Belmore is a knight and captain, but not the Lord of Strongsong. That is his second cousin, who refused to come north at all.”

 

Marwyn confirmed, “The men are grumbling, Your Grace.”

 

Templeton continued, “The Lords of the Three Sisters are less patient than we. Their islands have a precarious and unspoken truce with foreign pirates.”

 

“Who bring in the only trade on the Sisters besides fish,” said Belmore.

 

“But pirates cannot be trusted, my lady. Lord Sunderland is sick with worry over what’ll happen if he’s away for too long.”

 

Sansa asked, “What do they want? What can I do to keep them here?”

 

“Sunderland and his three bannermen want to go home as rich men.”

 

“You want me to pay them? With what coin?”

 

Templeton shook his head. “Their eyes have turned to the Dreadfort. Ser Jon sent men to hunt the Bastard of Bolton, but the castle sits idle. Sunderland thinks, ‘The sooner we storm the Dreadfort, the sooner we can go home.’ The others think, ‘Surely the Boltons have vaults of gold and an armory full of good steel.’”

 

Sansa wasn’t willing to let go of the bulk of her arms. She feared putting her tenuous army at risk. She straightened her back and said, “I thank you both for your council. I must needs consider matters before I decide.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace,” they replied together.

 

* * *

 

Sansa arranged for her kin to sup with her privately. They gathered around the corner table in what used to be her mother’s chambers. _These walls still don’t feel like they belong to me,_ she thought. Rickon sat across from her. Lydrea, with Halya in her lap, took the side between the Stark sister and brother. Halya was too young to grasp what was going on, but was beginning to mimic Rickon’s increasingly hostile disposition nonetheless.

 

A sudden beating on the door cause Sansa to cough out a piece of boiled cabbage. Lydrea went to the bedchamber entrance.

 

“Pardons, my lady,” Marwyn Belmore said hastily. He stepped past her and held out a scroll to Sansa.

 

“What is this, ser?”

 

“Raven from the Riverlands, Your Grace. From the Vances of Wayfarer’s Rest.”

 

She opened it hurriedly.

 

_To Queen Sansa Stark,_

 

_Your dear and dreary half-brother has rescued your fool of an uncle yet again. Viserion, that glorious beast of his, put Lannisport to the torch and howled for my release. The pale pair of them escorted me back to my bannerman’s castle. They are eager to be off and will take to the skies on the morrow. See that the youth’s wife gives him a proper welcome home. He earned that much and more._

 

_You and I are overdue to meet, dear niece. Without you and Ser Jon, such would be an impossibility. I am grateful you sent him._

 

_Love and loyalty,_

_Lord Edmure Tully_

 

Sansa pushed the scroll into Lydrea’s hands.

 

“Jon’s coming home!” she exclaimed.

 

Rickon reacted, “It says that?!”

 

“Aye, little brother,” confirmed Lydrea.

 

Sansa smiled at him and was pleased that Rickon returned the expression.

 

Halya raised both arms, excited because everyone else was.

 

Sansa felt something behind her and turned. Shaggydog was pushing his muzzle against her leg. The direwolf made a pleasant yelp.

 

 _Jon’s alive, he was off saving Uncle Edmure._ Relief washed over her, and she fought the lump in her throat. Sansa buried her fingers in the direwolf’s black fur, thankful for his acceptance. She saw her good-sister’s face. Tears welled in Lydrea’s eyes.

 

“Don’t,” Sansa begged. “You’ll make me cry too.” She extended her hand.

 

Lydrea squeezed it with both of hers.

 

“He’s alright,” Sansa assured her. “He’ll be home any day now.”

 

* * *

 

Mors Umber returned to Winterfell trumpeting his arrival from a league away with all manner of warhorns. Sansa greeted him atop her ill-tempered, black courser.

 

“Queen o’ the North,” cheered Mors Crowfood. “From Torrhen’s, I bring victory!”

 

“It would seem you bring more than that, Master Umber.”

 

He glanced back at the Ironborn tied back-to-back on packhorses. “Aye, my lady. The siege went to the Whitewolf’s plan. The whoresons were pissing themselves to flee to their little rowboats. Roger the Knight penned them in. We separated the high from the low, and Ryswell took the captains and nobles to his father. Lord Harlaw will ransom back the Glover children, you can bet your boots.”

 

“And you brought the lowborn here?”

 

The bear cloaked, one-eyed Northman grinned. “To face the queen’s justice.”

 

_He doesn’t intend for me to. . ._

 

Sansa forced a smile. “Send them to the dungeons for now, my lord. Come, be warmed by my hearth and wine.”

 

* * *

 

Two hours before dawn, Queen Sansa couldn’t sleep. Even more than the Ironborn whom Mors Umber added to the Winterfell dungeons, the prisoner already there troubled her sleep. She did not know why, but she soon found herself in the godswood. She stared up at her father’s heart tree. For how well she knew her family’s godswood, praying there felt unfamiliar.

 

“Do I ask for guidance?” she asked the weirwood’s carved face. “What do I call you?”

 

Her father’s old gods didn’t have names, not like her lady mother’s Seven. _Theon burned Mother’s sept. His men killed the septon. The godswood is all I have._

 

“Old gods, if I take the ironmen’s heads. . . will that be justice?”

 

The leaves rustled in the wind.

 

_“Jus. . .tice. . .”_

 

Her head shot up, looking for someone playing a trick. “Who’s there?!” she demanded.

 

Sansa was alone. The sound was only in her imagination.

 

She remembered what someone had once told her, _A man’s worth is a sum of his usefulness._ She tried to recall who said that. A moment later, the rest of the statement came to mind, _A useless man is worth only what the stew shops in Flea Bottom will pay for his bones and innards._

 

Sansa had no doubt whose words those were. She shuddered at the cruelty and the truth of Littlefinger’s remarks.

 

“If their deaths will earn the North’s loyalty. . .” She listened for the rustle of the wind but no words came to her, neither real ones nor imagined.

 

The Great Hall was fit to burst with the men breaking their fast. Sansa Stark looked across the faces beneath her roof. She reflected on how quickly she had changed from a piece ruled by others into a player in her own right. She recalled how distrustful Lord Petyr was, regardless of how much control he wielded.

 

 _Which of these men should I truly trust?_ she wondered in silence. Stark knew that Littlefinger and the Queen of Thorns would have the same answer for her, _Trust none of them._

 

Nonetheless, her gaze fell on a face. She needed half a moment to call to mind the man’s name.

 

_Lothor Brune._

 

The knight’s humble face reminded Sansa of a task she had yet to complete. _Every ruler needs one. . ._ She stood up from her place at the table and went to the throne of Winterfell. Soon, a hush passed through the hall.

 

“I have been remiss,” she called, loud and precise. “In the Vale I received wise counsel. A queen must have sworn swords she can trust with her life. Not a deceitful Kingsguard in the Targaryen fashion.” She spared a scornful thought for Joffrey’s honorless brutes. “Instead, I shall have an Honor Guard like the Arryn kings of old and like my brother Robb had so briefly.”

 

A chorus of murmurs rumbled through the Great Hall.

 

“Ser Mors Umber, savior of Torrhen’s Square, present yourself. Ser Lothor Brune, my humble knight, you as well.” The hulking uncle of Greatjon Umber and the stocky captain of the Eyrie guard walked through the center aisle. She gestured for them to knee before her. “Would you pledge your swords, your lives, and your courage to guard your queen and her kin?”

 

Brune was in awe of the proposal. He swore, “Until my last breath, my queen.”

 

Mors Crowfood hesitated for several seconds, then answered, “Aye. Why not!”

 

Queen Sansa Stark pressed her fingers to her lips, then touched Ser Lothor’s forehead. She repeated the gesture to Ser Mors Umber, the unlikely knight. “Arise, knights of the Winter Guard, swornswords of the Queen in the North.”

 

Sansa pushed back her hair and stood beside her father’s throne. “I have need of swordsmen. You need not be knights. You must only be brave in the face of my enemies, gentle with my family, and strong with steel in hand.”

 

The Great Hall was quiet.

 

Men had vied to fill the opening on Joffrey’s Kingsguard. Knights from the Vale to the Reach traversed the realm for the chance to join Renly’s Rainbow guard. Within the walls of Winterfell, it looked to Sansa that there would be no rush to join.

 

Two men stood up from the tables. One was in purple and silver, the other in silver and blue. Sansa knew them both. “Ser Marwyn Belmore, why should I select you?”

 

“I was captain of the guard for your aunt in the Eyrie. I served your half-brother honorably in the battle for Winterfell.”

 

To Sansa, his first claim meant little, but the later statement meant much. _Jon trusted him._ She welcomed him and bid Umber and Brune to embrace him as a brother.

 

“Captain Marlon Manderly,” she greeted the next supplicant.

 

He was round through his middle, but stood taller than Belmore and Brune. He gripped his steel-tipped trident in both hands. “I am an old soldier, Your Grace. But I would pledge to you my wits and the strength in my body. I rode with your father in the rebellion. I long commanded the guard for my lord cousin. Your Grace shall find no man more loyal to the Starks than I.”

 

Sansa waved him forward, and Manderly knelt before her. She kissed her fingers and touched her fingertips to his brow.

 

The hundreds of other men in attendance seemed slow to join her guard. Then, she saw two of Lord Sunderland’s younger sons stir in their seats. _What will their lord father think?_ Before they could put the question to her, Sansa deftly proclaimed, “I have filled more places than. . . than I meant to already. To any brave men who would likewise pledge themselves to my service, speak to Ser Marlon Manderly in the coming days. He shall discuss your, your aptitude with me soon. That is all for today, my lords.”

 

* * *

 

Outside in the snowy gallery between the keep and the guest tower, Sansa heard a squawk overhead.

 

_A raven from Jon!_

 

With Maester Luwin’s rookery torched, the bird perched in the rubble and out of reach. Sansa stopped the nearest man-at-arms. Whispering, she sent him for breadcrumbs. He returned, and she lured the raven by spreading crumbs over the snow. The bird flew down, and Sansa took the note from its leg.

 

The white on black wax seal disappointed her. _Karhold._ Sansa Stark flattened the parchment and read from the small lettering.

 

_Better news I couldn’t hope to hear, Queen in the North. I was the master-at-arms in Riverrun when Ser Jon the Whitewolf earned his spurs. He saved Lord Edmure once before. Mayhaps you know that. That bright day has come again. I have come to understand why my new bride’s kin took the wintry sun as their sigil. Nothing is so precious as warmth against the bitter cold. Word of Lord Tully’s rescue shall heat the hearts of this castle for a long while to come._

 

_Have you heard the whereabouts of my lady wife’s brother, Lord Harrion Karstark? Does he still live? Mayhaps it is too much to hope, but we in Karhold still await the return of our liege._

 

_Ser Desmond Grell, castellan of Karhold for Lady Alys Karstark._

 

* * *

 

Days passed without sight of Viserion’s wings or a message from Jon. Queen Sansa hid her worry from the Valemen, assuring them that the events were proceeding in their favor. The reassurance of Lord Edmure’s raven had soured into disappointment and fear.

 

_Jon should be home by now. Viserion should have arrived within a day or two of the raven._

 

Suddenly, she heard a commotion in the kitchens.

 

She stepped through the open doorway to find her little brother standing atop the baker’s block. He kicked over a bowl of dough. He was snarling and shouting at the servants. Shaggydog circled around the table, forcing everyone to keep their distance. Rickon’s words made little sense. They were the wild revolt of child whose world was once more beyond his control.

 

Sansa stood on a chair, making herself higher than her brother. “Rickon Stark! You stop that this very moment! You are a Prince of Winterfell, not an unruly mule!”

 

He glared back at her.

 

“You will go to your room. Right now, Rickon.”

 

“You’re not my mother!”

 

 _Our lady mother is dead,_ she thought. “No, I’m your elder sister and that is why you will obey me.” Sansa stepped off the chair, careful not to trip over the hem of her dress.

 

The black direwolf blocked her path. He frightened her, but Sansa walked straight at him. Shaggy snapped at the air. She didn’t flinch or break stride. “Come, my lord,” she told him.

 

Rickon paused his tirade, surprised that she wasn’t scared like everyone else. Sansa reached out and lifted him off the baking counter. Carrying the six year old on her hip, she told the cooks, “My apologies for my brother’s actions. He’s embarrassed the both of us.” Sansa looked down. “Shaggydog, you will follow too. Come Shaggy.”

 

At the stairs, she set Rickon down. “Take Shaggy up to your room. Stay there until I come to speak to you.” A look of defiance flashed in his eyes. She didn’t react, only staring him down. A moment later he started climbing the stone steps.

 

Sansa Stark listened to the boy’s footfalls, waiting to see if he would follow her instructions. When she knew he was at least on the correct floor, she began to rub her brow. Her hand shook.

 

_I told him Jon was coming home. Gods, what is taking so long?_

 

She realized she was crouching on the first step in full view of others. _Be a queen, not a child._ Sansa got to her feet and started up the stairs.

 

After the first flight, someone caught her by the arm. “You realize what you have to do, don’t you?”

 

“Oh,” Sansa responded, sighing. “Lydrea, what ever do you mean?”

 

Her good-sister stared back. “Were you born in Winterfell? Or an Oldtown septry?”

 

She crossed her arms. “You know precisely where I was born, my lady.”

 

“Then see that you don’t forget it,” Lydrea admonished. “This, like so much else, is a test. You cannot let them see you worry. And Sansa, there’s something I’ve been waiting for you to do. You’ve put it off too long already. On the morrow. . . you shall put the Ironborn to death.”

 

Sansa’s hand reflexively covered her mouth.

 

“You have to do it. . . _by your own hand._ I presume taking their heads would be too difficult a task.”

 

Sansa glared back.

 

“I cannot swing hard enough to separate a man’s head from his shoulders,” Lydrea admitted plainly. “But I have butchered my share of sheep and hares. Sansa, you will slit their treacherous throats. Stab a knife at least half-a-finger deep, then drag it across the neck. Take the day to make your peace with that, for you cannot forsake your duty in this. Please, Sansa. Not while the lords examine your fitness to rule.”

 

On that remark, Lydrea strode off.

 

Sansa Stark needed a moment to gather her composure after the blunt words. Jon’s wife had been so cold to her, ever since she sent him to fight the Lannisters. Sansa struggled with how she should feel about what she heard.

 

 _Father would take them out of sight of the castle and behead them. He’d call it his duty. Is the same expected of me? Truly?_ She couldn’t ignore Crowfood’s words. _The queen’s justice,_ she repeated in her mind.

 

 _Mother wouldn’t execute them. No, my lady mother didn’t have it in her to take a life._ Thinking of Lady Catelyn, Sansa believed she would have held them in the dungeons for their crimes.

 

_Until. . . Father came home to do his duty as the Lord of Winterfell._

 

Sansa’s father was lost to her, and Jon wasn’t there to bear this duty for her.

 

Uncertain of how to proceed, Sansa sought out privacy. She gathered her cloak and headed for the godswood. When she reached the heart tree, she realized she’d been crying for several minutes. She kicked at a gnarled, white root curving up from the ground. The sting in her toes made her feel all the more frail and weak.

 

Sansa Stark recalled how good it had felt to send Jon to kill Lannisters. “It was satisfying,” she told no one, “and stupid. The act of silly, stupid girl.”

 

Without Jon, the North was in danger of fracturing, as was her family. _It would be foolish to send lords to raze the Dreadfort before Jon returns._ Thinking of the day she sent him off, she told herself, _I was angry, oh so angry. What Bolton did to Jeyne, what that traitor Lord Melcolm did to Albie Royce. . . Everyone hurt me and there was nothing I could do. I thought for once I could hurt them back. What did I do to Jon?_

 

She tried to think of what could’ve happened. _He was safe at Wayfarer's Rest with Uncle Edmure. Then, he left on Viserion. Where is the danger between there and home? Did he go somewhere else?_

 

Sansa knew better than to indulge a hope. She’d been disappointed too many times for that. Sitting on the weirwood root, Queen Sansa allowed herself to cry away her worry. When finally she had no more tears left and her nose was red and numb, she got to her feet. Twilight was falling on the godswood.

 

_Be weak no more. Show them how strong you are._

 

* * *

 

The following morning, Sansa Stark commanded the lords to gather in the godswood. The Valemen exchanged worried glances and the Northmen grinned, once they all saw what she had planned. Kneeling in a row within view of the heart tree, the Ironborn prisoners were chained and held by Sansa’s knights.

 

“King Robb offered an alliance to the Greyjoys, and you repaid him with treachery. As the Queen of the North and Lady of Winterfell, I condemn each of you to death.” She looked over their faces.

 

None were surprised.

 

“You,” she said to the first man. “Have you any final words?”

 

“Would you was here when we took this savage shit pile,” he sneered. “I’d a raped you, ‘stead a that kennel-girl.”

 

Sansa fought the nausea in the pit of her stomach. She grabbed a fist full of his black hair. Marlon Manderly held him by the shoulders. With the stiletto knife taken off one of the prisoners, she touched the spike to the apple of his throat. A red droplet leaked before she even pushed the handle. Sansa gathered her courage and leaned into the blade. The steel slipped into his flesh easily.

 

He started choking and convulsing.

 

Sansa shrieked.

 

The prisoner fell forward with the knife still in his neck. His dying took ten long seconds. Ser Marlon removed the blade, wiped the blood on the prisoner’s back, and handed it to her.

 

The next ironman laughed at her. “You’re scared of the dead. You should be, you red bitch. What is dead may never die!”

 

“But rises harder, stronger,” chanted the others.

 

Mors Umber took hold of the man’s head, tilting his chin back. “He’s ready, Your Grace.”

 

_Don’t scream, don’t scream._

 

She pressed her lips tight and slid the stiletto in. She drew it back out and stabbed a second time. He died quickly.

 

The third prisoner was both familiar and strange to her. His hair was grey and brittle, his smile had been reduced to several shards. “Theon,” she began. “Look around you and understand what your actions brought. Are you at least sorry for your sins?”

 

“Theon,” he echoed. “That is my name.”

 

“I’ve known you most my life. Do you think I’d forget it?”

 

“No,” he replied. “You remembered my name.” Sansa waited for him to say more, and a moment later he said, “I never killed Bran or Rickon. They were never my blood anyways, but still men call me, ‘Kinslayer.’”

 

“You’re no kinslayer, I’ll declare that. But still a turncloak to Robb and a murderer of children.”

 

He didn’t respond.

 

“Have you nothing else to say?” she questioned.

 

“Will you bury me here?”

 

“What?!”

 

Theon Greyjoy’s smiled showed his cracked teeth and rotting gums. “In the lichyard. Bury me there. Let the worms that devour me be the honorable worms o’ Winterfell, my beautiful queen.”

 

Sansa stepped back. _Why would he want that? After everything he did. . ._

 

“No. You lost the right of resting as a man of Winterfell the moment you betrayed Robb.” She stopped to think. “You and your reaver companions will be tossed in the White Knife. If your seamonster god sees fit, you’ll be washed out to sea. Otherwise, your bodies will settle on the river’s edge and get scavenged by wolves.”

 

Theon was pleased by that. “Turned to wolf shit, eh? If a singer makes me into song, see that he uses that ending. Get on with it, Sansa. I’ll try not to bleed on you.” He shrugged. “It’s only polite.”

 

He had been the ward of Eddard Stark, the dear friend of Robb Stark, and a constant fixture in Sansa’s childhood. With the thin knife in her hand, she hesitated over him. She had only just experienced what it meant to kill a man. She dreaded learning how it felt to kill someone she knew so well. _His life is in my hand._ Sansa thought desperately of another choice. She considered the Night’s Watch.

 

_No. Not for Theon. He is an oathbreaker. He betrayed Robb and brought him down low. If Theon had kept true, Winterfell isn’t sacked and mayhaps Lord Frey proves too scared to murder Robb and mother. . ._

 

“By the old gods and the new, for the North and the Riverlands, I, Queen Sansa Stark, first of her name, condemn to death, Theon Greyjoy. For the crimes of oathbreaking, betrayal, and murder of children. May the Father judge you justly.”

 

She felt the steel hitch for a second, then the flesh gave way. The blade sunk in. All the way to the handle, the grey spike pierced his throat. Theon was silent. He neither coughed, nor spat. His chin lurched forward. His blood ran down Sansa’s arm. She withdrew the knife, and he collapsed. His blood turned the snow to pink, and steam rose off of it.

 

_Damn you to the seven hells, Theon._

 

Ser Lothor offered to execute the remaining prisoners.

 

Sansa replied, “I must do it.” After killing Theon, the others were meaningless. She said some words and listened their prayers and curses. Sansa wished she had something to say that might punctuate their lives. Her invocation of the Father felt hollow, but it was the best statement she knew. Twelve prisoners after Theon, and twelve times the blade sunk in.

 

Once the last of Crowfood’s prisoners was dead, Sansa gave the orders to drag them to the river. One of her men took the blade from her, she see who it was. She turned to leave, hoping to be alone.

 

Someone else grabbed her arm. “Stay,” whispered a girl’s voice.

 

Standing beside her, Lydrea Hornwood declared to the assembled crowd, “Leave the queen to her godswood, my lords. Go about your duties.”

 

The good-sisters stood together until the last onlooker was gone.

 

“You did well,” Hornwood finally said. “Never you mind that one scream you made. You did your duty as liege of the North, that is what they’ll remember.”

 

Sansa couldn’t look at her. She stared at the snow. All that remained of Theon and the others were the bloody trails their corpses left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave feedback, yall! It helps direct the story.


	85. Dany - Isle of Cedars

Queen Daenerys Stormborn looked ahead from the bow of her flagship. What was once Victarion Greyjoy’s  _ Iron Victory,  _ was now her  _ Black Dread. _ Flying out over the waves, Drogon howled at the Isle of Cedars on the horizon.  _ The island is too far to hear you roar, my child.  _ She walked to her captain and told him to gather her council.

 

The freedmen commanders joined her first, Marselen, Symon Stripeback, and Tal Toraq. Soon after, Grey Worm of the Unsullied came to her, bringing along Ser Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister under his watchful guard. The wily commander of the Windblown, called the Tattered Prince, brought with him two of Prince Quentyn Martell’s knights, one fair and one ugly. Dany couldn’t recall their names. With her young Queensguard knight, Ser Tumco Lho, on her left and Missandei on her right, Daenerys Targaryen greeted her council and asked them where they should sail to next.

 

Marselen, a freed Unsullied now commanding the Mother’s Men and the brother of Missandei, began with a question in Valyrian, “What of the toad-prince? His father is a king, no?”

 

Dany shook her head. “Prince Quentyn Martell. . . If I sailed to Dorne with him as my husband, then his father would’ve supported my claim. But now that Quentyn’s dead. . . what welcome could I expect?”

 

Toraq of the Stalwart Shields offered, “Lys then Tyrosh then Volantis. Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, we will smash their walls and free their slaves. Like Astapor and Meereen, the slave-masters will suffer your wrath.”

 

Tyrion the Imp chuckled. “We’ll be at sea for an additional year, should we visit Lys  _ then _ Tyrosh  _ then  _ Volantis. Folly, all of it.”

 

“Small man, smart man,” Toraq sneered. “Do those stub-arms swim? Will we bet?”

 

Symon Stripeback cheered the idea. Dany knew better. 

 

To Lannister, she responded, “You are here to inform us what you know of the Usurper’s dogs and the other traitors in Westeros. Provoke Toraq at your peril, dwarf. You are no less useful to me without your fingers, toes, hands, feet. . . Understand?”

 

“A thousand apologies, my lord,” he said to the freedman commander.

 

“Ser Jorah Mormont,” Dany addressed, “after we navigate the ruins of Valyria, do you agree with Captain Toraq? Shall I make for Volantis?”

 

Tal Toraq was pleased by the question, yet Jorah looked pained by it.

 

_ What did I say?  _

 

“Ser?” she prodded.

 

“Volantis is trouble, my queen. The fleet they raised must know of your victory against the Yunkai’i, by now. Does anyone think the triarchs dismissed their men?” He glanced around. “More likely, they are just waiting in the harbor for Your Grace to venture by.”

 

“Then where?”

 

He thought for a moment, bringing his hand up to his tattoo-marred face.

 

_ Oh, my proud bear. . . _

 

“Sail clear of the slaver cities. If Your Grace keeps her distance, the slave-masters will savor avoiding a battle.”

 

“Treason,” spat Marselen. 

 

Toraq and Symon Stripeback cursed Jorah in their native tongues.

 

The little scribe at Dany’s side offered, “This one. . . when our queen comes into her throne, Her Magnificence will have the armies to rid the world of slaving. Even with her brave men, battle at sea risks all. Even the Black One.”

 

_ Drogon. _

 

“My dragon - with me upon his back - can lay waste to any challenger. Volantine ships, slavers, Westerosi kings, all of them.” 

 

“With great reverence, Your Grace,” the dwarf began, sounding as humble as a seneschal.

 

“Speak.”

 

“Only a fool or a blind man would question our queen’s determination, but. . .” He looked up at her. “As my combative comrade accidently made clear, there’s an order to conquering: a fleet from Slaver’s Bay would be ill-advised to strike first at Lys then sail back to Volantis. Pouring from the same flagon. . . your swords and spears would be best used against their greatest enemy first. Employ them while still at their fullest strength, before snuffing out the lesser threats.”

 

“King’s Landing?” Jorah questioned, with a grunt.

 

Tyrion bowed his head to the bigger man. “The choice belongs to our beautiful queen.”

 

Symon demanded that Missandei translate the Sunset Kingdoms jabber. Once caught up, he insisted, “Fullest strength. Yes! In Volantis, we free slaves. Join them to us. Yes! That fullest strength.”

 

In the High Valyrian long out of common use, Lannister replied, “Very wise, my lord. You have a mind for strategy, I must say.” He turned to Dany. “But I know where we may attain an army of unrivalled armament. Moreover, an army we shall obtain with nary a drop of bloodshed.”

 

Not for a moment did Dany believe the Imp. “Are you some tiny warlock to conjure soldiers from the sea?”

 

Tyrion’s uneven face contorted into a tight-lipped smile. “It’s beyond my skill to raise an army from seawater. But if it please Her Grace, I would conjure one from. . . the Rock.”

 

“Clever words,” scoffed Jorah, “but unconvincing, dwarf. Forget Casterly Rock. You’re a kinslayer. Your father’s lords will never follow you. Sail for Storm’s End. Join with your nephew. Combine your forces for the best chance to slay your enemies.”

 

“Which forces do you counsel Her Grace to join with, Mormont? The Golden Company? That sellsword army was founded  _ to kill Targaryens. _ Do you really think they’ll so quickly bend the knee? And what of this Prince Aegon Targaryen? I met him and not even I can be certain he is who he claims to be. What if he isn’t? Bittersteel’s descendants might smash the queen’s skull upon a wall just for the pleasure of spilling Targaryen blood for the first time in decades. Oh, and murdering Her Grace would also ensure their claimant’s rise.”

 

“There is your claim, khaleesi.” Jorah pointed out over the water. “It flies out above the waves, dancing with its shadow. Just like the Conqueror before you, your claim has black wings and breathes fire. And Casterly Rock?” Mormont continued, skeptical. “A Lannister trick. The Imp has no hope of his inheritance, save for on your coat tail. He would put your quest in doubt, so long as it serves his ambitions.”

 

_ And what is your quest, my bear? What ambition do you dream of?  _

 

Tyrion said firmly, “Casterly Rock must be taken sometime, Your Grace. Only a fool would deny that. I will not back down from that truth. But. . . it need not be your first move.”

 

Dany listened. 

 

“Sail for Dragonstone.”

 

“Dragonstone?” Jorah questioned.

 

“Do you need Missandei to translate, ser? _Dragonstone._ That is where we must strike.”

 

Dany replied, “You speak like it’s the only choice available. There are many castles in Westeros.”

 

“Should the queen choose any of those,” insisted Tyrion, “her enemies will see it as weakness.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“If you strike at any lesser castles, Your Grace will be ridiculed in the war councils of your rivals. They will question why you attacked there. They shall wonder whether, indeed, you’re strong enough to take the Iron Throne. But Dragonstone. . . No man could second guess taking back your family stronghold. It would be an easier victory, an achievable one, that still exudes strength. Let your enemies wonder where you’ll strike next. Let them fear it.

 

“Storm’s End? Dorne? You would place yourself at the mercy of others. The Golden Company with the first, Prince Doran Martell at the later. From Her Grace’s lips we were reminded that Doran is the father of the youth who burned to death. There stands no faster way to erase old alliances than to kill a man’s son.”

 

“That was not my fault,” Dany asserted. “Rhaegal did that.”

 

“Your Grace must realize. . . every act of your dragons will be laid at your feet. You must accept that or else admit that you cannot control them.”

 

Queen Daenerys was growing irritated by all this plotting. “Why not make for King’s Landing? Why not win my throne in a single battle?” She looked to Ser Jorah. 

 

“Khaleesi, I cannot speak to the city’s defenses. It is-”

 

“Good that I’m here!” interrupted Tyrion. “I know everything there is to know of King’s Landing’s defenses, from my victory over Stannis.”

 

Jorah’s face was grim, but Dany let Tyrion continue.

 

“Back in Pentos, Magister Illyrio said to me that Cersei allowed the Faith to re-arm. We shared a laugh over my sweet sister’s blunder. In King’s Landing, the Swords and Stars will outnumber the Gold Cloaks many times over.”

 

Those designations meant nothing to Dany, so she merely listened.

 

“The High Septon owes his posting to me. If we might win him to our side, it would mean thousands taking up our cause from inside the city walls.”

 

“Excuse me,” offered one of the Dornish knights from beside the Tattered Prince. “Aren’t you talking about the High Septon that Cersei murdered?”

 

Tyrion slapped his forehead. “She murdered my High Septon? Is there no end to  _ her genius?  _ What came of it?”

 

Ser Archibald Yronwood, the ugly Dornish knight, said, “The next High Septon is called, ‘The High Sparrow.’ He’s devout. Fanatical. He is the one who arrested the queen.”

 

“Ah,” responded Lannister. “My point remains, though my septon might not. Win over the pious and you shall win your city.”

 

“So which is it, Imp? The Rock? Dragonstone? King’s Landing?”

 

“Mormont, not everything is as simple a question as which end of the sword to hold. There are nuances to strategies. There are tactics to consider. I hold that Casterly Rock would be the strongest place from which to mount a war campaign. But failing that, Dragonstone would be next. Once she has a foothold, Her Grace should set her eyes to King’s Landing.

 

“Now that I’ve had a minute to think on it,” he countered, changing his mind. “I am more encouraged about Dragonstone. From there, we can wait for allies to offer their swords. Also, dragons are said to love the island.”

 

“They do?” wondered Dany.

 

Tyrion nodded. “The Targaryen dragons of old had an affinity for the Dragonmont, they called it. They flourished on Dragonstone and liked nowhere better. Several flew there when they lost their riders.”

 

“Viserion. . ?”

 

He nodded knowingly.

 

“And Rhaegal,” Dany said breathlessly. “He was under sorcery when he flew off. . . but Viserion left on his own.”

 

“Where better to find your dragon, than where his ancestors most liked to fly?”

 

Jorah grumbled but when Dany asked his opinion, he replied, “It’s easier to sail to Dragonstone than most castles. Storm’s End is guarded by the Isle of Tarth, Dragonstone has no such defender.”

 

Tyrion was staring at Ser Archibald Yronwood in an odd way. The knight was nearly as big as Strong Belwas. He was completely bald, missing even his eyebrows. In Dany’s opinion, it made him look like a dim-witted fool, no matter that he spoke like a man of noble birth. 

 

The small man turned away from the large one and said, “Your Grace, since your bannerman, Lord Shavepate or what have you, killed your husband, who is your heir?”

 

_ When the seas go dry and the mountains blow in the wind. . . _

 

“I am the last dragon,” she stated.

 

“Are you?” queried the dwarf.

 

“Explain yourself.”

 

“You are the second Daenerys of House Targaryen. Are you familiar with the first?”

 

She crossed her arms.

 

He explained to her, “Princess Daenerys the First united the Seven Kingdoms under her brother, King Daeron the Good. Her descendants yet live.”

 

Ser Archibald and Ser Gerris Drinkwater were the first to understand.

 

Tyrion said, “Prince Doran Martell of Dorne is a direct descendant of Princess Daenerys the First, as are his children. If Prince Quentyn had been more patient. . . Well, Your Grace, he was a direct descendant of Princess Daenerys.”

 

Drinkwater responded, “Prince Doran has a younger son, Trystane Martell. If Prince Quentyn has a drop of dragon blood, so would his little brother.”

 

Tyrion nodded. 

 

Archibald said, “Queen Daenerys, Dorne would rise for Trystane.”

 

_ I wonder if the younger one looks more princely.  _

 

Gerris wore a sour expression. “He’s too young for her. He’s six years younger than Quentyn, so. . . three-and-ten.”

 

“He’s already betrothed,” clarified Tyrion. “He’s like to wed before we can reach Westeros. But he would make for a fine heir nonetheless.”

 

“What is he to you?” challenged Dany. 

 

Tyrion smiled. “I learned what I could of the prince, before I offered my niece as a match for him.”

 

Daenerys recoiled. 

 

“Your Grace, you must needs make common cause with _someone_ if you hope to rule. Those who bend the knee are like to have been born to fathers whose actions displease you. Everyone was sired by someone. My father sided against yours, yet who but I can join the Westerlands with your campaign? If you name Prince Trystane your heir, that will win you Dorne. His bride, Myrcella Baratheon, is your best chance to win over the Stormlands.”

 

Daenerys Targaryen looked to Ser Jorah for his counsel. He gave her a reluctant nod.

 

She could see a common thread between his numerous ideas.  _ He wants to sail anywhere but Storm’s End.  _ Dany wished she still had Ser Barristan for his trusted counsel. . . or even Skahaz the Shavepate.

 

“I am the Mother of Dragons. Hearing everything you each told me, the decision is mine. We sail for my ancestral home. Dock only when we must. I have been gone from my birthplace for too long. Dragonstone awaits.”


End file.
